If  if 


I   i 


f  i 


"Then  Jason  fell  on  the  guards  with  his  bare  hands  only" 


HALL  CAINE'S  BEST  BOOKS 

IN  THREE  VOLUMES 


The  Bondman 

The  Blind  Mother 

The  Last  Confession 


HALL    CAINE 


P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON 

NEW  YORK 


NOTE 

THE  central  date  of  this  story  (a  Saga  in  the  only  sense 
accepted  among  Icelanders)  is  1800,  when  Iceland,  in  the  same 
year  as  Ireland,  lost  the  last  visible  sign  of  her  ancient  indepen- 
dence as  a  nation.  But,  lest  the  historical  incidents  that  stand 
as  a  background  to  simple  human  passions  should  seem  to  clash  at 
some  points,  I  hasten  to  say  that  I  have  not  thought  it  wise  to  bind 
myself  to  the  strict  chronology  of  history,  Manx  or  Icelandic,  for 
some  years  before  and  after.  I  am  partly  conscious  that  the  Ice- 
land I  have  described  is  the  Iceland  of  an  earlier  era ;  but  Icelanders 
will  not  object  to  my  having  tried  to  bring  within  my  too  narrow 
limits  much  of  what  is  beautiful  and  noble  and  firing  to  enthusiasm 
in  their  old  habits,  customs,  and  laws.  To  the  foolish  revolt  which 
occurred  at  Reykjavik  early  in  this  century  I  have  tried  to  give  the 
dignity  of  a  serious  revolution  such  as,  I  truly  think,  Icelanders 
may  yet  make  in  order  to  become  masters  in  their  own  house.  For 
a  great  deal  of  my  data  toward  this  sort  of  secondary  interest  I 
am  indebted  to  many  books,  Icelandic  and  English;  and  for  some 
personal  help  I  owe  my  thanks  to  Herra  Jon  A.  Hjaltalin  of  Mod- 
ruvellir,  who  is  not,  however,  to  be  charged  with  my  mistakes — 
too  numerous,  I  have  no  doubt.  For  my  descriptions  of  Icelandic 
scenes  and  character  I  can  claim  no  authority  but  that  of  my 
own  observation.  H.  C. 

HAWTHORNS, 
KESWICK. 


Vol.  II. 


2136S32 


THE    BONDMAN 

"VENGEANCE  is  MINE — i  WILL  REPAY" 
PROEM 

THERE  is  a  beautiful  Northern  legend  of  a  man  who  loved  a 
good  fairy,  and  wooed  her  and  won  her  for  his  wife,  and  then 
found  that  she  was  no  more  than  a  woman  after  all.  Grown 
weary,  he  turned  his  back  upon  her  and  wandered  away  over  the 
mountains;  and  there,  on  the  other  side  of  a  ravine  from  where 
he  was,  he  saw,  as  he  thought,  another  fairy,  who  was  lovely  to 
look  upon  and  played  sweet  music  and  sang  a  sweet  song.  Then 
his  heart  was  filled  with  joy  and  bitterness,  and  he  cried,  "Oh,  that 
the  gods  had  given  me  this  one  to  wife  and  not  the  other."  At  that, 
with  mighty  effort  and  in  great  peril,  he  crossed  the  ravine  and 
made  toward  the  fairy,  and  she  fled  from  him;  but  he  ran  and 
followed  her  and  overtook  her  and  captured  her  and  turned  her 
face  to  his  face  that  he  might  kiss  her,  and  to!  she  was  his  wife! 

This  old  folk-tale  is  half  my  story — the  play  of  emotions  as 
sweet  and  light  as  the  footsteps  of  the  shadows  that  flit  over  a 
field  of  corn. 

There  is  another  Northern  legend  of  a  man  who  thought  he  was 
pursued  by  a  troll.  His  ricks  were  fired,  his  barns  unroofed,  his 
cattle  destroyed,  his  lands  blasted,  and  his  first-born  slain.  So  he 
lay  in  wait  for  the  monster  where  it  lived  in  the  chasms  near  his 
house,  and  in  the  darkness  of  night  he  saw  it.  With  a  cry  he 
rushed  upon  it,  and  gripped  it  about  the  waist,  and  it  turned  upon 
him  and  held  him  by  the  shoulder.  Long  he  wrestled  with  it,  reel- 
ing, staggering,  falling  and  rising  again;  but  at  length  a  flood  of 
strength  came  to  him  and  he  overthrew  it,  and  stood  over  it,  cov- 
ering it,  conquering  it,  with  its  back  across  his  thigh  and  his  right 
hand  set  hard  at  its  throat.  Then  he  drew  his  knife  to  kill  it,  and 
the  moon  shot  through  a  rack  of  cloud,  opening  an  alley  of  light 
about  it,  and  he  saw  its  face,  and  lo!  the  face  of  the  troll  was 
his  own! 

This  is  the  other  half  of  my  story— the  crash  of  passions  as 
bracing  as  a  black  thunderstorm. 

(3) 


4  THE   BONDMAN 

CHAPTER   I 

STEPHEN  ORRY,  SEAMAN,  OF  STAPPEN 

IN  the  latter  years  of  last  century,  H.  Jorgen  Jorgensen  was 
Governor-General  of  Iceland.  He  was  a  Dane,  born  in  Copen- 
hagen, apprenticed  to  the  sea  on  board  an  English  trader,  after- 
ward employed  as  a  petty  officer  in  the  British  navy,  and  some 
time  in  the  command  of  a  Danish  privateer  in  an  alliance  of  Den- 
mark and  France  against  England.  A  rover,  a  schemer,  a  shrewd 
man  of  affairs,  who  was  honest  by  way  of  interest,  just  by  policy, 
generous  by  strategy,  and  who  never  suffered  his  conscience,  which 
was  not  a  good  one,  to  get  the  better  of  him. 

In  one  of  his  adventures  he  had  sailed  a  Welsh  brig  from  Liver- 
pool to  Reykjavik.  This  had  been  his  introduction  to  the  Icelandic 
capital,  then  a  little,  hungry,  creeping  settlement,  with  its  face 
toward  America  and  its  wooden  feet  in  the  sea.  It  had  also  been 
his  introduction  to  the  household  of  the  Welsh  merchant,  who  had 
a  wharf  by  the  old  Canning  basin  at  Liverpool,  a  counting-house 
behind  his  residence  in  Wolstenholme  Square,  and  a  daughter  of 
five  and  twenty.  Jorgen,  by  his  own  proposal,  was  to  barter  En- 
glish produce  for  Icelandic  tallow.  On  his  first  voyage  he  took 
out  a  hundred  tons  of  salt,  and  brought  back  a  heavy  cargo  of  lava 
for  ballast.  On  his  second  voyage  he  took  out  the  Welshman's 
daughter  as  his  wife,  and  did  not  again  trouble  to  send  home  an 
empty  ship. 

He  had  learned  that  mischief  was  once  more  brewing  between 
England  and  Denmark,  had  violated  his  English  letters  of  marque 
and  run  into  Copenhagen,  induced  the  authorities  there,  on  the 
strength  of  his  knowledge  of  English  affairs,  to  appoint  him  to  the 
Governor-Generalship  of  Iceland  (then  vacant)  at  a  salary  of  four 
hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  landed  at  Reykjavik  with  the  Icelandic 
flag,  of  the  white  falcon  on  the  blue  ground — the  banner  of  the 
Vikings — at  the  masthead  of  his  father-in-law's  Welsh  brig. 

Jorgen  Jorgensen  was  then  in  his  early  manhood,  and  the 
strong  heart  of  the  good  man  did  not  decline  with  years,  but  rode 
it  out  with  him  through  life  and  death.  He  had  always  intended 
to  have  a  son  and  build  up  a  family.  It  was  the  sole  failure  of  his 
career  that  he  had  only  a  daughter.  That  had  been  a  disaster  for 
which  he  was  not  accountable,  but  he  prepared  himself  to  make 
a  good  end  of  a  bad  beginning.  With  God's  assistance  and  his 
own  extreme  labor  he  meant  to  marry  his  daughter  to  Count  Trol- 


THE   BONDMAN  5 

lop,  the  Danish  Minister  for  Iceland,  a  functionary  with  five  hun- 
dred a  year,  a  house  at  Reykjavik,  and  another  at  the  Danish 
capital. 

This  person  was  five-and-forty,  tall,  wrinkled,  powdered,  oiled, 
and  devoted  to  gallantry.  Jorgen's  daughter,  resembling  her 
Welsh  mother,  was  patient  in  suffering,  passionate  in  love,  and 
fierce  in  hatred.  Her  name  was  Rachel.  At  the  advent  of  Count 
Trollop  she  was  twenty,  and  her  mother  had  then  been  some  years 
dead. 

The  Count  perceived  Jorgen's  drift,  smiled  at  it,  silently  ac- 
quiesced in  it,  took  even  a  languid  interest  in  it,  arising  partly  out 
of  the  Governor's  position  and  the  wealth  the  honest  man  was 
supposed  to  have  amassed  in  the  rigorous  exercise  of  a  place  of 
power,  and  partly  out  of  the  daughter's  own  comeliness,  which 
was  not  to  be  despised.  At  first  the  girl,  on  her  part,  neither  as- 
sisted her  father's  designs  nor  resisted  them,  but  showed  complete 
indifference  to  the  weighty  questions  of  whom  she  should  marry, 
when  she  should  marry,  and  how  she  should  marry ;  and  this  mood 
of  mind  contented  her  down  to  the  last  week  in  June  that  followed 
the  anniversary  of  her  twenty-first  birthday. 

That  was  the  month  of  Althing,  the  national  holiday  of  four- 
teen days,  when  the  people's  law-givers — the  Governor,  the  Bishop, 
the  Speaker,  and  the  Sheriffs — met  the  people's  delegates  and 
some  portion  of  the  people  themselves  at  the  ancient  Mount  of 
Laws  in  the  valley  of  Thingvellir,  for  the  reading  of  the  old 
statutes  and  the  promulgation  of  the  new  ones,  for  the  trial  of 
felons  and  the  settlement  of  claims,  for  the  making  of  love  and  the 
making  of  quarrels,  for  wrestling  and  horse-fighting,  for  the  prac- 
tise of  arms  and  the  breaking  of  heads.  Count  Trollop  was  in 
Iceland  at  this  celebration  of  the  ancient  festival,  and  he  was  in- 
duced by  Jorgen  to  give  it  the  light  of  his  countenance.  The  Gov- 
ernor's company  set  out  on  half-a-hundred  of  the  native  ponies, 
and  his  daughter  rode  between  himself  and  the  Count.  During 
that  ride  of  six  or  seven  long  Danish  miles  Jorgen  settled  the  terms 
of  the  intended  transfer  to  his  own  complete  contentment.  The 
Count  acquiesced  and  the  daughter  did  not  rebel. 

The  lonely  valley  was  reached,  the  tents  were  pitched,  the  Bishop 
hallowed  the  assembly  with  solemn  ceremonies,  and  the  business 
of  Althing  began.  Three  days  the  work  went  on,  and  Rachel 
wearied  of  it;  but  on  the  fourth  the  wrestling  was  started,  and  her 
father  sent  for  her  to  sit  with  him  on  the  Mount  and  to  present 
at  the  end  of  the  contest  the  silver-buckled  belt  to  the  champion  of 
all  Iceland.  She  obeyed  the  summons  with  indifference,  and  took 


6  THE   BONDMAN 

a  seat  beside  the  Judge,  with  the  Count  standing  at  her  side.  In 
the  space  below  there  was  a  crowd  of  men  and  boys,  women  and 
children,  gathered  about  the  ring.  One  wrestler  was  throwing 
every  one  that  came  before  him.  His  name  was  Patricksen,  and  he 
was  supposed  to  be  descended  from  the  Irish,  who  settled,  years 
ago,  on  the  Westmann  islands.  His  success  became  monotonous; 
at  every  fresh  bout  his  self-confidence  grew  more  insufferable,  and 
the  girl's  eyes  wandered  from  the  spectacle  to  the  spectators.  From 
that  instant  her  indifference  fell  away. 

By  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  on  one  of  the  lower  mounds  of 
the  Mount  of  Laws,  a  man  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hand,  with 
elbow  on  his  knee.  His  head  was  bare,  and  from  his  hairy  breast 
his  woolen  shirt  was  thrown  back  by  reason  of  the  heat.  He  was 
a  magnificent  creature — young,  stalwart,  fair-haired,  broad-chested, 
with  limbs  like  the  beech  tree,  and  muscles  like  its  great  gnarled 
round  heads.  His  coat,  a  sort  of  sailor's  jacket,  was  coarse  and 
torn;  his  stockings,  reaching  to  his  knees,  were  cut  and  brown. 
He  did  not  seem  to  heed  the  wrestling,  and  there  rested  upon  him 
the  idle  air  of  the  lusty  Icelander — the  languor  of  the  big,  tired 
animal.  Only,  when  at  the  close  of  a  bout  a  cheer  rose  and  a  way 
was  made  through  the  crowd  for  the  exit  of  the  vanquished  man, 
did  he  lift  up  his  great  slow  eyes — gray  as  those  of  a  seal,  and  as 
calm  and  lustreless. 

The  wrestling  came  to  an  end.  Patricksen  justified  his  Irish 
blood,  was  proclaimed  the  winner,  and  stepped  up  to  the  foot  of 
the  Mount  that  the  daughter  of  the  Governor  might  buckle  about 
him  his  champion's  belt.  The  girl  went  through  her  function 
listlessly,  her  eyes  wandering  to  where  the  fair-haired  giant  sat 
apart.  Then  the  Westmann  islander  called  for  drink  that  he  might 
treat  the  losing  men,  and  having  drunk  himself,  he  began  to  swag- 
ger afresh,  saying  that  they  might  find  him  the  strongest  and  lus- 
tiest man  that  day  at  Thingvellir,  and  he  would  bargain  to  throw 
him  over  his  back.  As  he  spoke  he  strutted  by  the  bottom  of  the 
Mount,  and  the  man  who  sat  there  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at 
him.  Something  in  the  glance  arrested  Patricksen  and  he  stopped. 

"This  seems  to  be  a  lump  of  a  lad,"  he  said.  "Let  us  see  what 
we  can  do  with  him." 

And  at  that  he  threw  his  long  arms  about  the  stalwart  fellow, 
squared  his  broad  hips  before  him,  thrust  down  his  head  into  his 
breast  until  his  red  neck  was  as  thick  as  a  bullock's,  and  threw  all 
the  strength  of  his  body  into  his  arms  that  he  might  lift  the  man  out 
of  his  seat.  But  he  moved  him  not  an  inch.  With  feet  that  held 
the  earth  like  the  hoofs  of  an  ox,  the  young  man  sat  unmoved. 


THE   BONDMAN  7 

Then  those  who  had  followed  at  the  islander's  heels  for  the 
liquor  he  was  spending  first  stared  in  wonderment  at  his  failure, 
and  next  laughed  in  derision  of  his  bragging,  and  shouted  to  know 
why,  before  it  was  too  late,  the  young  man  had  not  taken  a  bout 
at  the  wrestling,  for  that  he  who  could  hold  his  seat  so  must  be 
the  strongest-limbed  man  between  the  fells  and  the  sea.  Hearing 
this  Patricksen  tossed  his  head  in  anger,  and  said  it  was  not  yet 
too  late,  that  if  he  took  home  the  champion's  belt  it  should  be 
no  rude  bargain  to  master  or  man  from  sea  to  sea,  and  buckled 
though  it  was,  it  should  be  his  who  could  take  it  from  its  place. 

At  that  word  the  young  fellow  rose,  and  then  it  was  seen  that 
his  right  arm  was  useless,  being  broken  between  the  elbow  and 
the  wrist,  and  bound  with  a  kerchief  above  the  wound.  Nothing 
loth  for  this  infirmity,  he  threw  his  other  arm  about  the  waist  of  the 
islander,  and  the  two  men  closed  for  a  fall.  Patricksen  had  the 
first  grip,  and  he  swung  to  it,  thinking  straightway  to  lay  his  ad- 
versary by  the  heels ;  but  the  young  man  held  his  feet,  and  then, 
pushing  one  leg  between  the  legs  of  the  islander,  planting  the  other 
knee  into  the  islander's  stomach,  thrusting  his  head  beneath  the 
islander's  chin,  he  knuckled  his  left  hand  under  the  islander's  rib, 
pulled  toward  him,  pushed  from  him,  threw  the  weight  of  his 
body  forward,  and  like  a  green  withe  Patricksen  doubled  backward 
with  a  groan.  Then  at  a  rush  of  the  islander's  kinsmen,  and  a  cry 
that  his  back  would  be  broken,  the  young  man  loosed  his  grip,  and 
Patricksen  rolled  from  him  to  the  earth,  as  a  clod  rolls  from  the 
plowshare. 

All  this  time  Jorgen's  daughter  had  craned  her  neck  to  see  over 
the  heads  of  the  people,  and  when  the  tussle  was  at  an  end,  her 
face,  which  had  been  strained  to  the  point  of  anguish,  relaxed  to 
smiles,  and  she  turned  to  her  father  and  asked  if  the  champion's 
belt  should  not  be  his  who  had  overcome  the  champion.  But  Jor- 
gen  answered  no — that  the  contest  was  done,  and  judgment  made, 
and  he  who  would  take  the  champion's  belt  must  come  to  the  next 
Althing  and  earn  it.  Then  the  girl  unlocked  her  necklace  of  coral 
and  silver  spangles,  beckoned  the  young  man  to  her,  bound  the 
necklace  about  his  broken  arm  close  up  by  the  shoulder,  and  asked 
him  his  name. 

"Stephen,"  he  answered. 

"Whose  son?"  said  she. 

"Orrysen — but  they  call  me  Stephen  Orry." 

"Of  what  craft?"" 

"Seaman,  of  Stappen,  under  Snaefell." 

The  V/estmann  islander  had  rolled  to  his  legs  by  this  time,  and 


8  THE   BONDMAN 

now  he  came  shambling  up,  with  the  belt  in  his  hand  and  his 
sullen  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"Keep  it,"  he  said,  and  flung  the  belt  at  the  girl's  feet,  between 
her  and  his  adversary.  Then  he  strode  away  through  the  people, 
with  curses  on  his  white  lips  and  the  veins  of  his  squat  forehead 
large  and  dark. 

It  was  midnight  before  the  crowds  had  broken  up  and  straggled 
away  to  their  tents,  but  the  sun  of  this  northern  land  was  still  half 
over  the  horizon,  and  its  dull  red  glow  was  on  the  waters  of  the 
lake  that  lay  to  the  west  of  the  valley.  In  the  dim  light  of  an  hour 
later,  when  the  hills  of  Thingvellir  slept  under  the  cloud  shadow 
that  was  their  only  night,  Stephen  Orry  stood  with  the  Governor's 
daughter  by  the  door  of  the  Thingvellir  parsonage,  for  Jorgen's 
company  were  the  parson's  guests.  He  held  out  the  champion's 
belt  to  her  and  said,  "Take  it  back,  for  if  I  keep  it  the  man  and  his 
kinsmen  will  follow  me  all  the  days  of  my  life." 

She  answered  him  that  it  was  his,  for  he  had  won  it,  and  until 
it  was  taken  from  him  he  must  hold  it,  and  if  he  stood  in  peril 
from  the  kinsmen  of  any  man  let  him  remember  that  it  was  she, 
daughter  of  the  Governor  himself,  who  had  given  it.  The  air  was 
hushed  in  that  still  hour,  not  a  twig  or  a  blade  rustling  over  the 
serried  face  of  that  desolate  land  as  far  as  the  wooded  rifts  that 
stood  under  the  snowy  dome  of  the  Arman  fells.  As  she  spoke 
there  was  a  sharp  noise  near  at  hand,  and  he  started;  but  she 
rallied  him  on  his  fears,  and  laughed  that  one  who  had  felled  the 
blustering  champion  of  that  day  should  tremble  at  a  noise  in  the 
night. 

There  was  a  wild  outcry  in  Thingvellir  next  morning.  Patrick- 
sen,  the  Westmann  islander,  had  been  murdered.  There  was  a 
rush  of  the  people  to  the  place  where  his  body  had  been  found.  It 
lay  like  a  rag  across  the  dike  that  ran  between  the  parsonage  and 
the  church.  On  the  dead  man's  face  was  the  look  that  all  had  seen 
there  when  last  night  he  flung  down  the  belt  between  his  adversary 
and  the  Governor's  daughter,  crying,  "Keep  it."  But  his  sullen 
eyes  were  glazed,  and  stared  up  without  the  quivering  of  a  lid 
through  the  rosy  sunlight;  the  dark  veins  on  his  brow  were  now 
purple,  and  when  they  lifted  him  they  saw  that  his  back  was  broken. 

Then  there  was  a  gathering  at  the  foot  of  the  Mount,  with  the 
parson  for  judge,  and  nine  men  of  those  who  had  slept  in  the  tents 
nearest  to  the  body  for  witnesses  and  jury.  Nothing:  was  dis- 
covered. No  one  had  heard  a  sound  throughout  the  night.  There 
was  no  charge  to  put  before  the  law-givers  at  Althing.  The  kins- 
men of  the  dead  man  cast  dark  looks  at  Stephen  Orry,  but  he  gave 


THE   BONDMAN  p 

never  a  sign.  Next  day  the  strong  man  was  laid  under  the  shallow 
turf  of  the  Church  garth.  His  little  life's  swaggering  was  swag- 
gered out;  he  must  sleep  on  to  the  resurrection  without  one  brag 
more. 

The  Governor's  daughter  did  not  leave  the  guest  room  of  the 
parsonage  from  the  night  of  the  wrestling  onward  to  the  last  morn- 
ing of  the  Althing  holiday,  and  then,  the  last  ceremonies  done,  the 
tents  struck  and  the  ponies  saddled,  she  took  her  place  between 
Jorgen  and  the  Count  for  the  return  journey  home.  Twenty  paces 
behind  her  the  fair-haired  Stephen  Orry  rode  on  his  shaggy  pony, 
gaunt  and  peaky  and  bearded  as  a  goat,  and  five  paces  behind  him 
rode  the  brother  of  the  dead  man  Patricksen.  Amid  five  hundred 
men  and  women,  and  eight  hundred  horses  saddled  for  riding  or 
packed  with  burdens,  these  three  had  set  their  faces  toward  the 
little  wooden  capital.  " 

July  passed  into  August,  and  the  day  was  near  that  had  been 
appointed  by  Jorgen  Jorgensen  for  the  marriage  of  his  daughter  to 
the  Count  Trollop.  At  the  girl's  request  the  marriage  was  post- 
poned. The  second  day  came  nigh ;  again  the  girl  excused  herself, 
and  again  the  marriage  was  put  off.  A  third  time  the  appointed 
day  approached,  and  a  third  time  the  girl  asked  for  delay.  But 
Jorgen's  iron  will  was  to  be  tampered  with  no  longer.  The  time 
was  near  when  the  Minister  must  return  to  Copenhagen,  and  that 
was  reason  enough  why  the  thing  in  hand  should  be  despatched. 
The  marriage  must  be  delayed  no  longer. 

But  then  the  Count  betrayed  reluctance.  Rumor  had  pestered 
him  with  reports  that  vexed  his  pride.  He  dropped  hints  of  them  to 
the  Governor.  "Strange,"  said  he,  "that  a  woman  should  prefer 
the  stink  of  the  fulmar  fish  to  the  perfumes  of  civilization."  Jorgen 
fired  up  at  the  sneer.  His  daughter  was  his  daughter,  and  he  was 
Governor-General  of  the  island.  What  low-born  churl  would  dare 
to  lift  his  eyes  to  the  child  of  Jorgen  Jorgensen? 

The  Count  had  his  answer  pat.  He  had  made  inquiries.  The 
man's  name  was  Stephen  Orry.  He  came  from  Stappen  under 
Snaefell,  and  was  known  there  for  a  wastrel.  On  the  poor  glory 
of  his  village  voyage  as  an  athlete,  he  idled  his  days  in  bed  and  his 
nights  at  the  tavern.  His  father,  an  honest  thrall,  was  dead;  his 
mother  lived  by  splitting  and  drying  the  stock-fish  for  English 
traders.  He  was  the  foolish  old  woman's  pride,  and  she  kept  him. 
Such  was  the  man  whom  the  daughter  of  the  Governor  had  chosen 
before  the  Minister  for  Iceland. 

At  that  Jorgen's  hard  face  grew  livid  and  white  by  turns.  They 
were  sitting  at  supper  in  Government  House,  and,  with  an  oath,  the 


,0  THE   BONDMAN 

Governor  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table.  It  was  a  lie;  his 
daughter  knew  no  more  of  the  man  than  he  did.  The  Count 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  asked  where  she  was  then,  that  she  was 
not  with  them.  Jorgen  answered,  with  an  absent  look,  that  she 
was  forced  to  keep  her  room. 

At  that  moment  a  message  came  for  the  Count.  It  was  urgent, 
and  could  not  wait.  The  Count  went  to  the  door,  and,  returning 
presently,  asked  if  Jorgen  was  sure  that  his  daughter  was  in  the 
house.  Certain  of  it  he  was,  for  she  was  ill,  and  the  days  were 
deepening  to  winter.  But  for  all  his  assurance,  Jorgen  sprang  up 
from  his  seat  and  made  for  his  daughter's  chamber.  She  was  not 
there,  and  the  room  was  empty.  The  Count  met  him  in  the  cor- 
ridor. "Follow  me,"  he  whispered,  and  Jorgen  followed,  his 
proud,  stern  head  bent  low. 

In  the  rear  of  the  Government  House  at  Reykjavik  there  is 
a  small  meadow.  That  night  it  was  inches  deep  in  the  year's  first 
fall  of  snow,  but  two  persons  stood  together  there,  close  locked  in 
each  other's  arms — Stephen  Orry  and  the  daughter  of  Jorgen  Jor- 
gensen. 

With  the  tread  of  a  cat  a  man  crept  up  behind  them.  It  was 
the  brother  of  Patricksen.  At  his  back  came  the  Count  and  the 
Governor.  The  snow  cloud  lifted,  and  a  white  gush  of  moon- 
light showed  all.  With  the  cry  of  a  wild  beast  Jorgen  flung  himself 
between  his  daughter  and  her  lover,  leapt  at  Stephen  and  struck 
him  hard  on  the  breast,  and  then,  as  the  girl  dropped  to  her  knees 
at  his  feet,  he  cursed  her. 

"Bastard,"  he  shrieked,  "there's  no  blood  of  mine  in  your  body. 
Go  to  your  filthy  offal,  and  may  the  devil  damn  you  both." 

She  stopped  her  ears  to  shut  out  the  torrent  of  a  father's  curse, 
but  before  the  flood  of  it  was  spent  she  fell  backward  cold  and 
senseless,  and  her  upturned  face  was  whiter  than  the  snow.  Then 
her  giant  lover  lifted  her  in  his  arms  as  if  she  had  been  a  child,  and 
strode  away  in  silence. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE    MOTHER    OF    A    MAN 

THE  daughter  of  the  Governor-General  and  the  seaman  of 
Stappen  were  made  man  and  wife.  The  little  Lutheran  priest,  who 
married  them,  Sigfus  Thomson,  a  worthy  man  and  a  good  Chris- 
tian, had  reason  to  remember  the  ceremony.  Within  a  week  he 
was  removed  from  his  chaplaincy  at  the  capital  to  the  rectory  of 


THE   BONDMAN  n 

Grimsey,  the  smallest  cure  of  the  Icelandic  Church,  on  an  island 
separated  from  the  mainland  by  seven  Danish  miles  of  sea. 

The  days  that  followed  brought  Rachel  no  cheer  of  life.  She 
had  thought  that  her  husband  would  take  her  away  to  his  home 
under  Snaefell,  and  so  remove  her  from  the  scene  of  her  humilia- 
tion. He  excused  himself,  saying  that  Stappen  was  but  a  poor 
place,  where  the  great  ships  never  put  in  to  trade,  and  that  there 
was  more  chance  of  livelihood  at  Reykjavik.  Rachel  crushed  down 
her  shame,  and  they  took  a  mean  little  house  in  the  fishing  quarter. 
But  Stephen  did  no  work.  Once  he  went  out  four  days  with  a 
company  of  Englishmen  as  guide  to  the  geysers,  and  on  his  return 
he  idled  four  weeks  on  the  wharves,  looking  at  the  foreign  seamen 
as  they  arrived  by  the  boats.  The  fame  of  his  exploit  at  Thing- 
vellir  had  brought  him  a  troop  of  admirers,  and  what  he  wanted  for 
his  pleasure  he  never  lacked.  But  necessity  began  to  touch  him  at 
home,  and  then  he  hinted  to  Rachel  that  her  father  was  rich.  She 
had  borne  his  indifference  to  her  degradation,  she  had  not  mur- 
mured at  the  idleness  that  pinched  them,  but  at  that  word  something 
in  her  heart  seemed  to  break.  She  bent  her  head  and  said  nothing. 
He  went  on  to  hint  that  she  should  go  to  her  father,  who  seeing  her 
need  would  surely  forgive  her.  Then  her  proud  spirit  could  brook 
no  more.  "Rather  than  darken  my  father's  doors  again,"  she  said, 
"I  will  starve  on  a  crust  of  bread  and  a  drop  of  water." 

Things  did  not  mend,  and  Stephen  began  to  cast  down  his  eyes 
in  shame  when  Rachel  looked  at  him.  Never  a  word  of  blame  she 
spoke,  but  he  reproached  himself  and  talked  of  his  old  mother  at 
Stappen.  She  was  the  only  one  who  could  do  any  good  with  him. 
She  knew  him  and  did  not  spare  him.  When  she  was  near  he 
worked  sometimes,  and  did  not  drink  too  much.  He  must  send 
for  her. 

Rachel  raised  no  obstacle,  and  one  day  the  old  mother  came, 
perched  upon  a  bony,  ragged-eared  pony,  and  with  all  her  belong- 
ings on  the  pack  behind  her.  She  was  a  little  hard-featured 
woman;  and  at  the  first  sight  of  her  seamed  and  blotched  face 
Rachel's  spirit  sank. 

The  old  woman  was  active  and  restless.  Two  days  after  her 
arrival  she  was  at  work  at  her  old  trade  of  splitting  and  drying  the 
stock-fish.  All  the  difference  that  the  change  had  made  for  her 
was  that  she  was  working  on  the  beach  at  Reykjavik  instead  of  the 
beach  at  Stappen,  and  living  with  her  son  and  her  son's  wife  instead 
of  alone. 

Her  coming  did  not  better  the  condition  of  Rachel.  She  had 
measured  her  new  daughter-in-law  from  head  to  foot  at  their 


I2  THE   BONDMAN 

first  meeting,  and  neither  smiled  nor  kissed  her.  She  was  devoted 
to  her  son,  and  no  woman  was  too  good  for  him.  Her  son  had 
loved  her,  and  Rachel  had  come  between  them.  The  old  woman 
made  up  her  mind  to  hate  the  girl,  because  her  fine  manners  and 
comely  face  were  a  daily  rebuke  to  her  own  coarse  habits  and 
homely  looks,  and  an  hourly  contrast  always  present  to  Stephen's 

Stephen  was  as  idle  as  ever,  and  less  ashamed  of  his  sloth  now 
that  there  was  some  one  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door.  His  mother 
accepted  with  cheerfulness  the  duty  of  bread-winner  to  her  son,  but 
Rachel's  helplessness  chafed  her.  For  all  her  fine  fingering  the 
girl  could  finger  nothing  that  would  fill  the  pot.  "A  pretty  wife 
you've  brought  me  home  to  keep,"  she  muttered  morning  and  night. 

But  Rachel's  abasement  was  not  even  yet  at  its  worst.  "Oh," 
she  thought,  "if  I  could  but  get  back  my  husband  to  myself  alone, 
he  would  see  my  humiliation  and  save  me  from  it."  She  went  a 
woman's  way  to  work  to  have  the  old  mother  sent  home  to  Stappen. 
But  the  trick  that  woman's  wit  can  devise  woman's  wit  can  balk, 
and  the  old  mother  held  her  ground.  Then  the  girl  bethought  her 
of  her  old  shame  at  living  in  a  hovel  close  to  her  father's  house, 
and  asked  to  be  taken  away.  Anywhere,  anywhere,  let  it  be  to  the 
world's  end,  and  she  would  follow.  Stephen  answered  that  one 
place  was  like  another  in  Iceland,  where  the  people  were  few  and 
all  knew  their  history;  and,  as  for  foreign  parts,  though  a  seaman 
he  was  not  a  seagoing  man,  farther  than  the  whale-fishing  lay 
about  their  coasts,  and  that,  go  where  they  might  to  better  their 
condition,  yet  other  poor  men  were  there  already.  At  that,  Rachel's 
heart  sank,  for  she  saw  that  the  great  body  of  her  husband  must 
cover  a  pigmy  soul.  Bound  she  was  for  all  her  weary  days  to  the 
place  of  her  disgrace,  doomed  she  was  to  live  to  the  last  with  the 
woman  who  hated  her,  and  to  eat  that  woman's  bitter  bread.  She 
was  heavy  with  child  at  this  time,  and  her  spirit  was  broken.  So 
she  sat  herself  down  with  her  feet  to  the  hearth,  and  wept. 

There  the  old  mother  saw  her  as  often  as  she  bustled  in  and  out 
of  the  house  from  the  beach,  and  many  a  gibe  she  flung  her  way. 
But  Stephen  sat  beside  her  one  day  with  a  shamefaced  look,  and 
cursed  his  luck,  and  said  if  he  only  had  an  open  boat  of  his  own 
what  he  would  do  for  both  of  them.  She  asked  how  much  a  boat 
would  cost  him,  and  he  answered  sixty  kroner ;  that  a  Scotch  captain 
then  in  the  harbor  had  such  a  one  to  sell  at  that  price,  and  that  it 
was  a  better  boat  than  the  fishermen  of  those  parts  ever  owned, 
for  it  was  of  English  build.  Now  it  chanced  that  sitting  alone  that 
very  day  in  her  hopelessness,  Rachel  had  overheard  a  group  of  noisy 


THE   BONDMAN  13 

young  girls  in  the  street  tell  of  a  certain  Jew,  named  Bernard  Frank, 
who  stood  on  the  jetty  by  the  stores  buying  hair  of  the  young 
maidens  who  would  sell  to  him,  and  of  the  great  money  he  had  paid 
to  some  of  them,  such  as  they  had  never  handled  before. 

And  now  at  this  mention  of  the  boat,  and  at  the  flash  of  hope 
that  came  with  it,  Rachel  remembered  that  she  herself  had  a 
plentiful  head  of  hair,  and  how  often  it  had  been  commended  for 
its  color  and  texture,  and  length  and  abundance,  in  the  days  (now 
gone  forever)  when  all  things  were  good  and  beautiful  that  be- 
longed to  the  daughter  of  the  Governor.  So,  making  some  excuse 
to  Stephen,  she  rose  up,  put  off  her  little  house  cap  with  the  tassel, 
put  on  her  large  linen  head-dress,  hurried  out,  and  made  for  the 
wharf. 

There  in  truth  the  Jew  was  standing  with  a  group  of  girls  about 
him.  And  some  of  these  would  sell  outright  to  him,  and  then  go 
straightway  to  the  stores  to  buy  filigree  jewelry  and  rings,  or 
bright-hued  shawls,  with  the  price  of  their  golden  locks  shorn  off. 
And  some  would  hover  about  him  between  desire  of  so  much  arti- 
ficial adornment  and  dread  of  so  much,  natural  disfigurement,  until, 
like  moths,  they  would  fall  before  the  light  of  the  Jew's  bright 
silver. 

Rachel  had  reached  the  place  at  the  first  impulse  of  her  thought, 
but  being  there  her  heart  misgave  her,  and  she  paused  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  crowd.  To  go  in  among  these  girls  and  sell  her  hair 
to  the  Jew  was  to  make  herself  one  with  the  lowest  and  meanest 
of  the  town,  but  that  was  not  the  fear  that  held  her  back.  Sud- 
denly the  thought  had  come  to  her  that  what  she  had  intended  to 
do  was  meant  to  win  her  husband  back  to  her,  yet  that  she  could 
not  say  what  it  was  that  had  won  him  for  her  at  the  first.  And 
seeing  how  sadly  the  girls  were  changed  after  the  shears  had 
passed  over  their  heads,  she  could  not  help  but  ask  herself  what  it 
would  profit  her,  though  she  got  the  boat  for  her  husband,  if  she 
lost  him  for  herself?  And  thinking  in  this  fashion  she  was  turn- 
ing away  with  a  faltering  step,  when  the  Jew,  seeing  her,  called  to 
her,  saying  what  lovely  fair  hair  she  had,  and  asking  would  she  part 
with  it.  There  was  no  going  back  on  her  purpose  then,  so  facing 
it  out  as  bravely  as  she  could,  she  removed  her  head-dress,  dropped 
her  hair  out  of  the  plaits,  until  it  fell  in  its  sunny  wavelets  to  her 
waist,  and  asked  how  much  he  would  give  for  it.  The  Jew  an- 
swered, "Fifty  kroner." 

"Make  it  sixty,"  she  said,  "and  it  is  yours." 

The  Jew  protested  that  he  would  lose  by  the  transaction,  but  he 
paid  the  money  into  Rachel's  hands,  and  she,  lest  she  should  repent 


J4  THE   BONDMAN 

of  her  bargain,  prayed  him  to  take  her  hair  off  instantly.  He  was 
nothing  loth  to  do  so,  and  the  beautiful  flaxen  locks,  cut  close  to 
the  crown,  fell  in  long  tresses  to  his  big  shears.  Rachel  put  back 
her  linen  head-dress,  and,  holding  tightly  the  sixty  silver  pieces  in 
her  palm,  hurried  home. 

Her  cheeks  were  crimson,  her  eyes  were  wet,  and  her  heart 
was  beating  high  when  she  returned  to  her  poor  home  in  the  fishing 
quarter.  There  in  a  shrill,  tremulous  voice  of  joy  and  fear,  she 
told  Stephen  all,  and  counted  out  the  glistening  coins  to  the  last 
of  the  sixty  into  his  great  hand. 

"And  now  you  can  buy  the  English  boat,"  she  said,  "and  we 
shall  be  beholden  to  no  one." 

He  answered  her  wild  words  with  few  of  his  own,  and  showed 
little  pleasure;  yet  he  closed  his  hand  on  the  money,  and,  getting 
up,  he  went  out  of  the  house,  saying  he  must  see  the  Scotch  captain 
there  and  then.  Hardly  had  he  gone  when  the  old  mother  came  in 
from  her  work  on  the  beach,  and,  Rachel's  hopes  being  high,  she 
could  not  but  share  them  with  her,  and  so  she  told  her  all,  little  as 
was  the  commerce  that  passed  between  them.  The  mother  only 
grunted  as  she  listened  and  went  on  with  her  food. 

Rachel  longed  for  Stephen  to  return  with  the  good  news  that 
all  was  settled  and  done,  but  the  minutes  passed  and  he  did  not 
come.  The  old  woman  sat  by  the  hearth  and  smoked.  Rachel 
waited  with  fear  at  her  heart,  but  the  hours  went  by  and  still 
Stephen  did  not  appear.  The  old  woman  dozed  before  the  fire 
and  snored.  At  length,  when  the  night  had  worn  on  toward 
midnight,  an  unsteady  step  came  to  the  door,  and  Stephen  reeled 
into  the  house  drunk.  The  old  woman  awoke  and  laughed. 

Rachel  grew  faint  and  sank  to  a  seat.  Stephen  dropped  to  his 
knees  on  the  ground  before  her,  and  in  a  maudlin  cry  went  on  to 
tell  of  how  he  had  thought  to  make  one  hundred  kroner  of  her 
sixty  by  a  wager,  how  he  had  lost  fifty,  and  then  in  a  fit  of  despair 
had  spent  the  other  ten. 

"Then  all  is  gone — all,"  cried  Rachel.  And  thereupon  the  old 
woman  shuffled  to  her  feet  and  said  bitterly,  "And  a  good  thing, 
too.  I  know  you — trust  me  for  seeing  through  your  sly  ways, 
my  lady.  You  expected  to  take  my  son  from  me  with  the  price 
of  your  ginger  hair,  you  ugly  bald-pate." 

Rachel's  head  grew  light,  and  with  the  cry  of  a  baited  creature 
she  turned  upon  the  old  mother  in  a  torrent  of  hot  words.  "You 
low,  mean,  selfish  soul,"  she  cried,  "I  despise  you  more  than  the 
dirt  under  my  feet." 

Worse  than  this  she  said,  and  the  old  woman  called  on  Stephen 


THE   BONDMAN  15 

to  hearken  to  her,  for  that  was  the  wife  he  had  brought  home  to 
revile  his  mother. 

The  old  witch  shed  some  crocodile  tears,  and  Stephen  lunged 
in  between  the  women  and  with  the  back  of  his  hand  struck  his 
wife  across  the  face. 

At  that  blow  Rachel  was  silent  for  a  moment,  trembling  like 
an  affrighted  beast,  and  then  she  turned  upon  her  husband.  "And 
so  you  have  struck  me — me — me,"  she  cried.  "Have  you  forgotten 
the  death  of  Patricksen?" 

The  blow  of  her  words  was  harder  than  the  blow  of  her  hus- 
band's hand.  The  man  reeled  before  it,  turned  white,  gasped  for 
breath,  then  caught  up  his  cap  and  fled  out  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  LAD  JASON 

OF  Rachel  in  her  dishonor  there  is  now  not  much  to  tell,  but 
the  little  that  is  left  is  the  kernel  of  this  history. 

That  night,  amid  the  strain  of  strong  emotions,  she  was  brought 
to  bed  before  her  time  was  yet  full.  Her  labor  was  hard,  and  long 
she  lay  between  life  and  death,  for  the  angel  of  hope  did  not  pull 
with  her.  But  as  the  sun  shot  its  first  yellow  rays  through  the  little 
skin-covered  windows,  a  child  was  born  to  Rachel,  and  it  was  a  boy. 
Little  joy  she  found  in  it,  and  remembering  its  father's  inhumanity, 
she  turned  her  face  from  it  to  the  wall,  trying  thereby  to  conquer 
the  yearning  that  answered  to  its  cry. 

It  was  then  that  for  the  first  time  since  her  lying-in  that  the 
old  mother  came  to  her.  She  had  been  out  searching  for  Stephen, 
and  had  just  come  upon  news  of  him. 

"He  has  gone  in  an  Engish  ship,"  she  cried.  "He  sailed  last 
night,  and  I  have  lost  him  forever." 

And  at  that  she  leaned  her  quivering  white  face  over  the  bed, 
and  raised  her  clenched  hand  over  Rachel's  face. 

"Son  for  son,"  she  cried  again.  "May  you  lose  your  son,  even 
as  you  have  made  me  to  lose  mine." 

The  child  seemed  likely  to  answer  to  the  impious  prayer,  for  its 
little  strength  waned  visibly.  And  in  those  first  hours  of  her 
shameful  widowhood  the  evil  thought  came  to  Rachel  to  do  with  it 
as  the  baser  sort  among  her  people  were  allowed  to  do  with  the 
children  they  did  not  wish  to  rear — expose  it  to  its  death  before  it 
had  yet  touched  food.  But  in  the  throes,  as  she  thought,  of  its  ex- 


l6  THE   BONDMAN 

tremity,  the  love  of  the  mother  prevailed  over  the  hate  of  the  wife, 
and  with  a  gush  of  tears  she  plucked  the  babe  to  her  breast.  Then 
the  neighbor,  who  out  of  pity  and  charity  had  nursed  her  in  her 
dark  hour,  ran  for  the  priest,  that  with  the  blessing  of  baptism 
the  child  might  die  a  Christian  soul. 

The  good  man  came,  and  took  the  little,  sleep-bound  body  from 
Rachel's  arms,  and  asked'her  the  name.  She  did  not  answer,  and 
he  asked  again.  Once  more,  having  no  reply,  he  turned  to  the 
neighbor  to  know  what  the  father's  name  had  been. 

"Stephen  Orry,"  said  the  good  woman. 

"Then  Stephen  Stephenson,"  he  began,  dipping  his  fingers  into 
the  water;  but  at  the  sound  of  that  name  Rachel  cried,  "No, 
no,  no." 

"He  has  not  done  well  by  her,  poor  soul,"  whispered  the  woman ; 
"call  it  after  her  own  father." 

"Then  Jorgen  Jorgensen,"  the  priest  began  again;  and  again 
Rachel  cried,  "No,  no,  no,"  and  raised  herself  upon  her  arm. 

"It  has  no  father,"  she  said,  "and  I  have  none.  If  it  is  to 
die,  let  it  go  to  God's  throne  with  the  badge  of  no  man's  cruelty; 
and  if  it  is  to  live,  let  it  be  known  by  no  man's  name  save  its  own. 
Call  it  Jason — Jason  only." 

And  in  the  name  of  Jason  the  child  was  baptized,  and  so  it 
was  that  Rachel,  little  knowing  what  she  was  doing  in  her  blind 
passion  and  pain,  severed  her  son  from  kith  and  kin.  But  in  what 
she  did  out  of  bitterness  of  her  heart  God  himself  had  his  own  great 
purposes. 

From  that  hour  the  child  increased  in  strength,  and  soon  waxed 
strong,  and  three  days  after,  as  the  babe  lay  cooing  at  Rachel's 
breast,  and  she  in  her  own  despite  was  tasting  the  first  sweet  joys 
of  motherhood,  the  old  mother  of  Stephen  came  to  her  again. 

"This  is  my  house,"  she  said,  "and  I  will  keep  shelter  over  your 
head  no  longer.  You  must  pack  and  away — you  and  your  brat, 
both  of  you." 

That  night  the  Bishop  of  the  island — Bishop  Petersen,  once  a 
friend  of  Rachel's  mother,  now  much  in  fear  of  the  Governor,  her 
father — came  to  her  in  secret  to  say  that  there  was  a  house  for  her 
at  the  extreme  west  of  the  fishing  quarter,  where  a  fisherman  had 
lately  died,  leaving  the  little  that  he  had  to  the  Church.  There 
she  betook  herself  with  her  child  as  soon  as  the  days  of  her  lying-in 
were  over.  It  was  a  little  oblong  shed  of  lava  blocks  laid  with  peat 
for  mortar,  resembling  on  the  outside  two  ancient  seamen  shoving 
shoulders  together  against  the  weather  and  on  the  inside  two  tiny 
bird  cages. 


THE  BONDMAN  17 

And  having  no  one  now  to  stand  to  her,  or  seem  to  stand,  in  the 
place  of  bread-winner,  she  set  herself  to  such  poor  work  as  she 
could  do  and  earn  a  scanty  living  by.  This  was  cleaning  the 
down  of  the  eider  duck,  by  passing  it  through  a  sieve  made  of  yarn 
stretched  over  a  hoop.  By  a  deft  hand,  with  extreme  labor,  some- 
thing equal  to  sixpence  a  day  could  be  made  in  this  way  from  the 
English  traders.  With  such  earnings  Rachel  lived  in  content,  and 
if  Jorgen  Jorgensen  had  any  knowledge  of  his  daughter's  necessi- 
ties he  made  no  effort  to  relieve  them. 

Her  child  lived — a  happy,  sprightly,  joyous  bird  in  its  little 
cage — and  her  broken  heart  danced  to  its  delicious  accents.  It 
sweetened  her  labors,  it  softened  her  misfortunes,  it  made  life  more 
dear  and  death  more  dreadful;  it  was  the  strength  of  her  arms 
and  the  courage  of  her  soul,  her  summons  to  labor  and  her  desire 
for  rest.  Call  her  wretched  no  longer,  for  now  she  had  her  child 
to  love.  Happy  little  dingy  cabin  in  the  fishing  quarter,  amid  the 
vats  for  sharks'  oil  and  the  heaps  of  dried  cod !  It  was  filled  witH 
heaven's  own  light,  that  came  from  above  but  radiated  from  the 
little  cradle  where  her  life,  her  hope,  her  joy,  her  solace  lay  swathed 
in  the  coverlet  of  all  her  love. 

And  as  she  worked  through  the  long  summer  days  on  the  beach, 
with  the  child  playing  among  the  pebbles  at  her  feet,  many  a  dream 
danced  before  her  of  the  days  to  come,  when  her  boy  would  sail 
in  the  ships  that  came  to  their  coast,  and  perhaps  take  her  with  him 
to  that  island  of  the  sea  that  had  been  her  mother's  English  home, 
where  men  were  good  to  women  and  women  were  true  to  men. 
Until  then  she  must  live  where  she  was,  a  prisoner  chained  to  a 
cruel  rock;  but  she  would  not  repine,  she  could  wait,  for  the  time 
of  her  deliverance  was  near.  Her  liberator  was  coming.  He  was 
at  her  feet;  he  was  her  child,  her  boy,  her  darling;  and  when  he 
slumbered  she  saw  him  wax  and  grow,  and  when  he  awoke  she 
saw  her  fetters  break.  Thus  on  the  bridge  of  hope's  own  rainbow 
she  spanned  her  little  world  of  shame  and  pain. 

The  years  went  by,  and  Jason  grew  to  be  a  strong-limbed, 
straight,  stalwart  lad,  red-haired  and  passionate-hearted,  reckless 
and  improvident  as  far  as  improvidence  was  possible  amid  the 
conditions  of  his  bringing  up.  He  was  a  human  waterfowl,  and  all 
his  days  were  spent  on  the  sea.  Such  work  as  was  also  play  he 
was  eager  to  do.  He  would  clamber  up  the  rocks  of  the  island  of 
Engy  outside  the  harbor,  to  take  the  eggs  of  the  eider  duck  from 
the  steep  places  where  she  built  her  nest;  and  from  the  beginning 
of  May  to  the  end  of  June  he  found  his  mother  in  the  eider  down 
that  she  cleaned  for  the  English  traders.  People  whispered  to 


I8  THE   BONDMAN 

Rachel  that  he  favored  his  father,  both  in  stature  and  character, 
but  she  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  their  gloomy  forebodings.  Her  son 
was  as  fair  as  the  day  to  look  upon,  and  if  he  had  his  lazy  humors, 
he  had  also  one  quality  which  overtopped  them  all— he  loved 
his  mother.  People  whispered  again  that  in  this  regard  also 
he  resembled  his  father,  who  amid  many  vices  had  the  same 
sole  virtue. 

Partly  to  shut  him  off  from  the  scandal  of  the  gossips,  who 
might  tell  him  too  soon  the  story  of  his  mother's  wrecked  and 
broken  life,  and  partly  out  of  the  bitterness  and  selfishness  of  her 
bruised  spirit,  Rachel  had  brought  up  her  boy  to  speak  the  tongue 
of  her  mother — the  English  tongue.  Her  purpose  failed  her,  for 
Jason  learned  Icelandic  on  the  beach  as  fast  as  English  in  the 
house ;  he  heard  the  story  of  his  mother's  shame  and  of  his  father's 
baseness,  and  brought  it  back  to  her  in  the  colors  of  a  thrice-told 
tale.  Vain  effort  of  fear  and  pride!  It  was  nevertheless  to  pre- 
pare the  lad'  for  the  future  that  was  before  him. 

And  through  all  the  days  of  her  worse  than  widowhood,  amid 
dark  memories  of  the  past  and  thoughts  of  the  future  wherein  many 
passions  struggled  together,  the  hope  lay  low  down  in  Rachel's 
mind  that  Stephen  would  return  to  her.  Could  he  continue  to  stand 
in  dread  of  the  threat  of  his  own  wife  ?  No,  no,  no.  It  had  been 
only  the  hot  word  of  a  moment  of  anger,  and  it  was  gone.  Stephen 
was  staying  away  in  fear  of  the  brother  of  Patricksen.  When  that 
man  was  dead,  or  out  of  the  way,  he  would  return.  Then  he  would 
see  their  boy,  and  remember  his  duty  toward  him,  and  if  the  lad 
ever  again  spoke  bitterly  of  one  whom  he  had  never  yet  seen,  she 
on  her  part  would  chide  him,  and  the  light  of  revenge  that  had 
sometimes  flashed  in  his  brilliant  blue  eyes  would  fade  away  and  in 
uplooking  and  affection  he  would  walk  as  a  son  with  his  father's 
hand. 

Thus  in  the  riot  of  her  woman's  heart  hope  fought  with  fear 
and  love  with  hate.  And  at  last  the  brother  of  Patricksen  did  in- 
deed disappear.  Rumor  whispered  that  he  had  returned  to  the 
Westmann  islands,  there  to  settle  for  the  rest  of  his  days  and  travel 
the  sea  no  more. 

"Now  he  will  come,"  thought  Rachel.  "Wherever  he  is,  he 
will  learn  that  there  is  no  longer  anything  to  fear,  and  he  will 
return." 

And  she  waited  with  as  firm  a  hope  that  the  winds  would  carry 
the  word  as  Noah  waited  for  the  settling  of  the  waters  after  the 
dove  had  found  the  dry  land. 

But  time  went  on  and  Stephen  did  not  appear,  and  at  length 


THE   BONDMAN  19 

under  the  turmoil  of  a  heart  that  fought  with  itself,  Rachel's  health 
began  to  sink. 

Then  Patricksen  returned.  He  had  a  message  for  her.  He 
knew  where  her  husband  was.  Stephen  Orry  was  on  the  little 
island  of  Man,  far  away  south,  in  the  Irish  Sea.  He  had  married 
again,  and  he  had  another  child.  His  wife  was  dead,  but  his  son 
was  living. 

Rachel  in  her  weakness  went  to  bed  and  rose  from  it  no  more. 
The  broad  dazzle  of  the  sun  that  had  been  so  soon  to  rise  on  her 
wasted  life  was  shot  over  with  an  inky  pall  of  cloud.  Nor  for 
her  was  to  be  the  voyage  to  England.  Her  boy  must  go  alone. 

It  was  the  winter  season  in  that  stern  land  of  the  north,  when 
night  and  day  so  closely  commingle  that  the  darkness  seems  never 
to  lift.  And  in  the  silence  of  that  long  night  Rachel  lay  in  her 
little  hut,  sinking  rapidly  and  much  alone.  Jason  came  to  her 
from  time  to  time,  in  his  great  sea  stockings  and  big  gloves  and 
with  the  odor  of  the  brine  in  his  long  red  hair.  By  her  bedside  he 
would  stand  half-an-hour  in  silence,  with  eyes  full  of  wonderment; 
for  life  like  that  of  an  untamed  colt  was  in  his  own  warm  limbs, 
and  death  was  very  strange  to  him.  A  sudden  hemorrhage  brought 
the  end,  and  one  day  darker  than  the  rest,  when  Jason  hastened 
home  from  the  boats,  the  pain  and  panting  of  death  was  there 
before  him.  His  mother's  pallid  face  lay  on  her  arm,  her  great 
dark  eyes  were  glazed  already,  she  was  breathing  hard  and  every 
breath  was  a  spasm.  Jason  ran  for  the  priest — the  same  that  had 
named  him  in  his  baptism.  The  good  old  man  came  hobbling 
along,  book  in  hand,  and  seeing  how  life  flickered  he  would 
have  sent  for  the  Governor,  but  Rachel  forbade  him.  He  read  to 
her,  he  sang  for  her  in  his  crazy  cracked  voice,  he  shrived  her,  and 
then  all  being  over,  as  far  as  human  efforts  could  avail,  he  sat  him- 
self down  on  a  chest,  spread  his  print  handkerchief  over  his  knee, 
took  out  his  snuff-box,  and  waited. 

Jason  stood  with  his  back  to  the  glow  of  the  peat  fire,  and  his 
hard  set  face  in  the  gloom.  Never  a  word  came  from  him,  never  a 
sign,  never  a  tear.  Only  with  the  strange  light  in  his  wild  eyes  he 
looked  on  and  listened. 

Rachel  stirred  and  called  to  him. 

"Are  you  there,  Jason?"  she  said,  feebly,  and  he  stepped  to 
her  side. 

"Closer,"  she  whispered :  and  he  took  her  cold  hand  in  both  his 
hands,  and  then  her  dim  eyes  knew  where  to  look  for  his  face. 

"Good-by,  my  brave  lad,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  fear  to  leave  you. 
You  are  strong,  you  are  brave,  and  the  world  is  kind  to  them  that 


20  THE   BONDMAN 

can  fight  it.  Only  to  the  weak  it  is  cruel — only  to  the  weak  and  the 
timid — only  to  women — only  to  helpless  women  -sold  into  the 
slavery  of  heartless  men." 

And  then  she  told  him  everything — her  love,  her  loyalty,  her 
Hfe.  In  twenty  little  words  she  told  the  story. 

"I  gave  him  all — all.  I  took  a  father's  curse  for  him.  He 
struck  me — he  left  me — he  forgot  me  with  another  woman.  Listen 
— listen — closer  still — still  closer,"  she  whispered,  eagerly,  and  then 
she  spoke  the  words  that  lie  at  the  heart  of  this  history. 

"You  will  be  a  sailor,  and  sail  to  many  lands.  If  you  should 
ever  meet  your  father,  remember  what  your  mother  has  borne  from 
him.  If  you  should  never  meet  him,  but  should  meet  his  son,  re- 
member what  your  mother  has  suffered  at  the  hands  of  his  father. 
Can  you  hear  me  ?  Is  my  speech  too  thick  ?  Have  you  understood 
me?" 

Jason's  parched  throat  was  choking,  and  he  did  not  answer. 

"My  brave  boy,  farewell,"  she  said.  "Good-by,"  she  mur- 
mured again,  more  faintly,  and  after  that  there  was  a  lull,  a  pause, 
a  sigh,  a  long-drawn  breath,  another  sigh,  and  then  over  his  big 
brown  hands  her  pallid  face  fell  forward,  and  the  end  was  come. 

For  some  minutes  Jason  stood  there  still  in  the  same  impassive 
silence.  Never  a  tear  yet  in  his  great  eyes,  now  wilder  than  they 
were ;  never  a  cry  from  his  dry  throat,  now  surging  hot  and  athirst ; 
never  a  sound  in  his  ears,  save  a  dull  hum  of  words  like  the  plash 
of  a  breaker  that  was  coming — coming — coming  from  afar.  She 
was  gone  who  had  been  everything  to  him.  She  had  sunk  like  a 
wave,  and  the  waves  of  the  ocean  were  pressing  on  behind  her. 
She  was  lost,  and  the  tides  of  life  were  flowing  as  before. 

The  old  pastor  shuffled  to  his  feet,  mopping  his  moist  eyes  with 
his  red  handkerchief.  "Come  away,  my  son,"  he  said,  and  tapped 
Jason  on  the  shoulder. 

"Not  yet,"  the  lad  answered  hoarsely.  And  then  he  turned  with 
a  dazed  look  and  said,  like  one  who  speaks  in  his  sleep,  "My  father 
has  killed  my  mother." 

"No,  no,  don't  say  that,"  said  the  priest. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  lad  more  loudly ;  "not  in  a  day,  or  an  hour, 
or  a  moment,  but  in  twenty  long  years." 

"Hush,  hush,  my  son."  the  old  priest  murmured. 

But  Jason  did  not  hear  him.  "Now  listen,"  he  cried,  "and 
hear  my  vow."  And  still  he  held  the  cold  hand  in  his  hands,  and 
still  the  ashy  face  rested  on  them. 

"I  will  hunt  the  world  over  until  I  find  that  man,  and  when  I 
have  found  him  I  will  slay  him." 


THE   BONDMAN  21 

"What  are  you  saying?"  cried  the  priest. 

But  Jason  went  on  with  an  awful  solemnity.  "If  he  should  die, 
and  we  should  never  meet,  I  will  hunt  the  world  over  until  I  find 
his  son,  and  when  I  have  found  him  I  will  kill  him  for  his  father's 
sake." 

"Silence,   silence,"  cried  the  priest. 

"So  help  me  God!"  said  Jason. 

"My  son,  my  son,  Vengeance  is  His.  What  are  we  that  we 
should  presume  to  it?" 

Jason  heard  nothing,  but  the  frost  of  life's  first  winter  that  had 
bound  up  his  heart,  deafening  him,  blinding  him,  choking  him, 
seemed  all  at  once  to  break.  He  pushed  the  cold  face  gently  back 
on  to  the  pillow,  and  fell  over  it  with  sobs  that  shook  the  bed. 

They  buried  the  daughter  of  the  Governor  in  the  acre  allotted  to 
the  dead  poor  in  the  yard  of  the  Cathedral  of  Reykjavik.  The 
bells  were  ringing  a  choral  peal  between  matins  and  morning  ser- 
vice. Happy  little  girls  in  bright  new  gowns,  with  primroses  on 
their  breasts  yellowing  their  round  chins,  went  skipping  in  at  the 
wide  west  doorway,  chattering  as  they  went  like  linnets  in  spring. 
It  was  Easter  Day,  nineteen  years  after  Stephen  Orry  had  fled 
from  Iceland. 

Next  morning  Jason  signed  articles  on  the  wharf  to  sail  as 
seaman  before  the  mast  on  an  Irish  schooner  homeward  bound  for 
Belfast,  with  liberty  to  call  at  Whitehaven  in  Cumberland,  and 
Ramsey  in  the  Isle  of  Man. 


CHAPTER   IV 

AN    ANGEL   IN    HOMESPUN 

THE  little  island  in  the  middle  of  the  Irish  Sea  has  through 
many  centuries  had  its  own  language  and  laws,  and  its  own  judges 
and  governors.  Very,  very  long  ago,  it  had  also  its  own  kings; 
and  one  of  the  greatest  of  them  was  the  Icelandic  seadog  who 
bought  it  with  blood  in  1077.  More  recently  it  has  had  its  own 
reigning  lords,  and  one  of  the  least  of  them  was  the  Scottish  noble- 
man who  sold  it  for  gold  in  1765.  After  that  act  of  truck  and  trade 
the  English  crown  held  the  right  of  appointing  the  Governor-Gen- 
eral. It  chose  the  son  of  the  Scottish  nobleman.  This  was  John, 
fourth  Duke  of  Athol,  and  he  held  his  office  fifty-five  bad  years. 
In  his  day  the  island  was  not  a  scene  of  overmuch  gaiety.  If  the 
memory  of  old  men  can  be  trusted,  he  contrived  to  keep  a  swash- 


22  THE   BONDMAN 

buckler  court  there,  but  its  festivities,  like  his  own  dignities,  must 
have  been  maimed  and  lame.  He  did  not  care  to  see  too  much 
of  it,  and  that  he  might  be  free  to  go  where  he  would  he  appointed 
a  deputy  governor. 

Now  when  he  looked  about  him  for  this  deputy  he  found  just 
six  and  twenty  persons  ready  to  fall  at  his  feet.  He  might  have 
had  either  of  the  Deemsters,  but  he  selected  neither ;  he  might  have 
had  any  of  the  twenty-four  Keys,  but  he  selected  none.  It  was 
then  that  he  heard  of  a  plain  farmer  in  the  north  of  the  island, 
who  was  honored  for  his  uprightness,  beloved  for  his  simplicity, 
and  revered  for  his  piety.  "The  very  man  for  me,"  thought  the 
lord  of  the  swashbucklers,  and  he  straightway  set  off  to  see  him. 

He  found  him  living  like  a  patriarch  among  his  people,  sur- 
rounded by  his  sons,  and  proud  of  them  that  they  were  many  and 
strong.  His  name  was  Adam  Fairbrother.  In  his  youth  he  had 
run  away  to  sea,  been  taken  prisoner  by  the  Algerines,  kept  twenty- 
eight  months  a  slave  in  Barbary,  had  escaped  and  returned  home 
captain  of  a  Guineaman.  This  had  been  all  his  education  and  all 
his  history.  He  had  left  the  island  a  wild,  headstrong,  passionate 
lad :  he  had  returned  to  it  a  sober,  patient,  gentle-hearted  man. 

Adam's  house  was  at  Lague,  a  loose,  straggling,  featureless  and 
irresolute  old  fabric,  on  five  hundred  hungry  acres  of  the  rocky 
headland  of  Maughold.  When  the  Duke  rode  up  to  it  Adam  himself 
was  ringing  the  bell  above  the  door  lintel  that  summoned  his  people 
to  dinner.  He  was  then  in  middle  life,  stout,  yet  flaccid  and  slack, 
with  eyes  and  forehead  of  sweetest  benevolence,  mouth  of  softest 
tenderness,  and  hair  already  whitening  over  his  ears  and  temples. 

"The  face  of  an  angel  in  homespun,"  thought  the  Duke. 

Adam  received  his  visitor  with  the  easy  courtesy  of  an  equal, 
first  offering  his  hand.  The  Duke  shook  hands  with  him.  He  held 
the  stirrup  while  the  Duke  alighted,  took  the  horse  to  the  stable, 
slackened  its  girths,  and  gave  it  a  feed  of  oats,  talking  all  the  time. 
The  Duke  stepped  after  him  and  listened.  Then  he  led  the  way  to 
the  house.  The  Duke  followed.  They  went  into  the  living  room — 
an  oblong  kitchen  with  an  oak  table  down  the  middle,  and  two 
rows  of  benches  from  end  to  end.  The  farming  people  were  troop- 
ing in,  bringing  with  them  the  odor  of  fresh  peat  and  soil.  Bowls 
of  barley  broth  were  being  set  in  front  of  the  big  chair  at  the 
table  end.  Adam  sat  in  this  seat  and  motioned  the  Duke  to  the 
bench  at  his  right.  The  Duke  sat  down.  Then  six  words  of  grace 
and  all  were  in  their  places — Adam  himself,  his  wife,  a  shrewd- 
faced  body,  his  six  sons,  big  and  shambling,  his  men,  bare-armed 
and  quiet,  his  maids,  with  skirts  tucked  up,  plump  and  noisy,  and 


THE   BONDMAN  23 

the  swashbuckler  Duke,  amused  and  silent,  glancing  down  the 
long  lines  of  the  strangest  company  with  whom  he  had  ever  yet 
been  asked  to  sit  at  dinner.  Suet  pudding  followed  the  broth, 
sheep's  head  and  potatoes  followed  the  pudding,  then  six  words 
of  thanks  and  all  rose  and  trooped  away  except  the  Duke  and 
Adam.  That  good  man  had  not  altered  the  habit  of  his  life  by 
so  much  as  a  plate  of  cheese  for  the  fact  that  the  "Lord  of  Man" 
had  sat  at  meat  with  him.  "The  manners  of  a  prince,"  thought  the 
Duke. 

They  took  the  armchairs  at  opposite  sides  of  the  ingle. 
"You   look   cozy   in   your  retreat,    Mr.    Fairbrother,"    said  the 
Duke ;  "but  since  your  days  in  Guinea  have  you  never  dreamt  of  a 
position  of  more  power,  and  perhaps  of  more  profit?" 

"As  for  power,"  answered  Adam,  "I  have  observed  that  the 
name  and  the  reality  rarely  go  together." 

"The  experience  of  a  statesman,"  thought  the  Duke. 

"As  for  profit,"  he  continued,  "I  have  reflected  that  money 
has  never  yet  since  the  world  began  tempted  a  happy  man." 

"The  wisdom  of  a  judge,"  thought  the  Duke. 

"And  as  for  myself  I  am  a  completely  happy  one." 

"With  more  than  a  judge's  integrity,"  thought  the  Duke.  At 
that  the  Duke  told  the  purpose  of  his  visit. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  with  uplifted  hands,  "don't  say  I've  gone 
far  to  fare  worse.  The  post  I  offer  requires  but  one  qualification 
in  the  man  who  fills  it,  yet  no  one  about  me  possesses  the  simple 
gift.  It  needs  an  honest  man,  and  all  the  better  if  he's  not  a 
fool.  Will  you  take  it?" 

"No,"  said  Adam,  short  and  blunt. 

"The  very  man,"  thought  the  Duke. 

Six  months  later  the  Duke  had  his  way.  Adam  Fairbrother, 
of  Lague,  was  made  Governor  of  Man  (under  the  Duke  himself 
as  Governor-General)  at  a  salary  of  five  hundred  pounds  a  year. 

On  the  night  of  Midsummer  Day,  1793,  the  town  of  Ramsey 
held  high  festival.  The  "Royal  George"  had  dropped  anchor  in 
the  bay,  and  the  Prince  of  Wales,  attended  by  the  Duke  of  Athol, 
Captain  Murray,  and  Captain  Cook,  had  come  ashore  to  set  the 
foot  of  an  English  Prince  for  the  first  time  on  Manx  soil.  Before 
dusk,  the  Royal  ship  had  weighed  anchor  again,  but  when  night 
fell  in  the  festivities  had  only  begun.  Guns  were  fired,  bands  of 
music  passed  through  the  town,  and  bonfires  were  lighted  on  the 
top  of  the  Sky  Hill.  The  kitchens  of  the  inns  were  crowded,  and 
the  streets  were  thronged  with  country  people  enveloped  in  dust. 
In  the  market-place  the  girls  were  romping,  the  young  men  drink- 


24  THE   BONDMAN 

ing,  the  children  shouting  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  the  pedlers 
edging  their  barrows  through  the  crowd  and  crying  their  wares. 
Over  all  the  tumult  of  exuberant  voices,  the  shouting,  the  laughter, 
the  merry  shrieks,  the  gay  banter,  the  barking  of  sheep-dogs,  the 
snarling  of  mongrel  setters,  the  streaming  and  smoking  of  haw- 
kers' torches  across  a  thousand  faces,  there  was  the  steady  peal 
of  the  bell  of  Ballure. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all  a  strange  man  passed  through  the  town. 
He  was  of  colossal  stature — stalwart,  straight,  and  flaxen-haired, 
wearing  a  goatskin  cap  without  brim,  a  gray  woolen  shirt  open  at 
the  neck  and  belted  with  a  leathern  strap,  breeches  of  untanned 
leather,  long  thick  stockings,  a  second  pair  up  to  his  ankles,  and  no 
shoes  on  his  feet.  His  face  was  pale,  his  cheek  bones  stood  high, 
and  his  eyes  were  like  the  eyes  of  a  cormorant.  The  pretty  girls 
stopped  their  chatter  to  look  after  him,  but  he  strode  on  with  long 
steps,  and  the  people  fell  aside  for  him. 

At  the  door  of  the  Saddle  Inn  he  stood  a  moment,  but  voices 
came  from  within  and  he  passed  on.  Going  by  the  Court  House  he 
came  to  the  Plow  Tavern,  and  there  he  stopped  again,  paused  a 
moment,  and  then  stepped  in.  After  a  time  the  children  who  had 
followed  at  his  heels  separated,  and  the  girls  who  had  looked  after 
him  began  to  dance  with  arms  akimbo  and  skirts  held  up  over  their 
white  ankles.  He  was  forgotten. 

An  hour  later,  four  men,  armed  with  cutlasses,  and  carrying 
ship's  irons,  came  hurrying  from  the  harbor.  They  were  blue- 
jackets from  the  revenue  cutter  lying  in  the  bay,  and  they  were  in 
pursuit  of  a  seaman  who  had  escaped  from  the  English  brig  at 
anchor  outside.  The  runaway  was  a  giant  and  a  foreigner,  and 
could  not  speak  a  word  of  English  or  Manx.  Had  any  one  seen 
him?  Yes,  every  one.  He  had  gone  into  the  Plow.  To  the 
Plow  the  blue-jackets  made  their  way.  The  good  woman  who 
kept  it,  Mother  Beatty,  had  certainly  seen  such  a  man.  "Aw,  yes, 
the  poor  craythur,  he  came,  so  he  did,"  but  never  a  word  could  he 
speak  to  her,  and  never  a  word  could  she  speak  to  him,  so  she  gave 
him  a  bit  of  barley  cake,  and  maybe  a  drop  of  something,  and  that 
was  all.  He  was  not  in  the  house  then?  "Och,  let  them  look  for 
themselves."  The  blue- jackets  searched  the  house,  and  came  out 
as  they  had  entered.  Then  they  passed  through  every  street,  looked 
down  every  alley,  peered  into  every  archway,  and  went  back  to 
their  ship  empty-handed. 

When  they  were  gone  Mother  Beatty  came  to  the  door  and 
looked  out.  At  the  next  instant  the  big-limbed  stranger  stepped 
from  behind  her. 


THE   BONDMAN  25 

"That  way,"  she  whispered,  and  pointed  to  a  dark  alley  oppo- 
site. 

The  man  watched  the  direction  of  her  finger  in  the  darkness, 
doffed  his  cap,  and  strode  away. 

The  alley  led  him  by  many  a  turn  to  the  foot  of  a  hill.  It  was 
Ballure.  Behind  him  lay  the  town,  with  the  throngs,  the  voices, 
and  the  bands  of  music.  To  his  left  was  the  fort,  belching  smoke 
and  the  roar  of  cannon.  To  his  right  were  the  bonfires  on  the 
hilltop,  with  little  dark  figures  passing  before  them,  and  a  glow 
above  them  embracing  a  third  of  the  sky.  In  front  of  him  was  the 
gloom  and  silence  of  the  country.  He  walked  on ;  a  fresh  coolness 
came  to  him  out  of  the  darkness,  and  over  him  a  dull  murmur  hov- 
ered in  the  air.  He  was  going  toward  Kirk  Maughold. 

He  passed  two  or  three  little  houses  by  the  wayside,  but  most  of 
them  were  dark.  He  came  by  a  tavern,  but  the  door  was  shut,  and 
no  one  answered  when  he  knocked.  At  length,  by  the  turn  of  a 
byroad,  he  saw  a  light  through  the  trees,  and  making  toward  it  he 
found  a  long  shambling  house  under  a  clump  of  elms.  He  was  at 
Lague. 

The  light  he  saw  was  from  one  window  only,  and  he  stepped 
up  to  it.  A  man  was  sitting  alone  by  the  hearth,  with  the  glow  of 
a  gentle  fire  on  his  face— a  beautiful  face,  soft  and  sweet  and 
tender.  It  was  Adam  Fairbrother. 

The  stranger  stood  a  moment  in  the  darkness,  looking  into  the 
quiet  room.  Then  he  tapped  on  the  window-pane. 

On  this  evening  Governor  Fairbrother  was  worn  with  toil  and 
excitement.  It  had  been  Tynwald  Day,  and  while  sitting  at  St. 
John's  he  had  been  summoned  to  Ramsey  to  receive  the  Prince  of 
Wales  and  the  Duke  of  Athol.  The  royal  party  had  already 
landed  when  he  arrived,  but  not  a  word  of  apology  had  he  offered 
for  the  delayed  reception.  He  had  taken  the  Prince  to  the  top  of 
the  Sky  Hill,  talking  as  he  went,  answering  many  questions  and 
asking  not  a  few,  naming  the  mountains,  running  through  the 
island's  history,  explaining  the  three  legs  of  its  coat-of-arms, 
glancing  at  its  ancient  customs  and  giving  a  taste  of  its  language. 
He  had  been  simple,  sincere,  and  natural  from  first  to  last,  and 
when  the  time  had  come  for  the  Prince  to  return  to  his  ship  he  had 
presented  his  six  sons  to  him  with  the  quiet  dignity  of  a  patriarch, 
saying  these  were  his  gifts  to  his  king  that  was  to  be.  Then  on 
the  quay  he  had  offered  the  Prince  his  hand,  hoping  he  might  see 
him  again  before  long ;  for  he  was  a  great  lover  of  a  happy  face,  and 
the  Prince,  it  was  plain  to  see,  was,  like  himself,  a  man  of  a 
cheerful  spirit. 

2  Vol.  II 


26  THE   BONDMAN 

But  when  the  "Royal  George"  had  sailed  out  of  the  bay  at  the 
top  of  the  tide,  and  the  great  folk  who  had  held  their  breath  in  awe 
of  so  much  majesty  were  preparing  to  celebrate  the  visit  with  the 
blazing  of  cannon  and  the  beating  of  drums,  Adam  Fairbrother 
had  silently  slipped  away.  He  lived  at  Government  House,  but  had 
left  his  three  elder  boys  at  Lague,  and  thought  this  a  happy  chance 
of  spending  a  night  at  home.  Only  his  sons'  housekeeper,  a  spin- 
ster aunt  of  his  own,  was  there,  and  when  she  had  given  him  a 
bite  of  supper  he  had  sent  her  after  the  others  to  look  at  the 
sights  of  Ramsey.  Then  he  had  drawn  up  his  chair  before  the  fire, 
charged  his  long  pipe,  purred  a  song  to  himself,  begun  to  smoke, 
to  doze,  and  to  dream. 

His  dreams  that  night  had  been  woven  with  visions  of  his 
bad  days  in  the  slave  factory  at  Barbary — of  his  wreck  and  capture, 
of  his  cruel  tortures  before  his  neck  was  yet  bowed  to  the  yoke 
of  bondage,  of  the  whip,  before  he  knew  the  language  of  his  mas- 
ters to  obey  it  quickly,  of  the  fetters  on  his  hands,  the  weights  on 
his  legs,  the  collar  about  his  neck,  of  the  raw  flesh  where  the  iron 
had  torn  the  skin;  and  then  of  the  dark  wild  night  of  his  escape 
when  he  and  three  others,  as  luckless  and  as  miserable,  had  run 
a  raft  into  the  sea,  stripped  off  their  shirts  for  a  sail,  and  thrust 
their  naked  bodies  together  to  keep  them  warm. 

Such  was  the  gray  silt  that  came  up  to  him  that  night  from 
the  deposits  of  his  memory.  The  Tynwalk,  the  Prince,  the  Duke, 
the  guns,  the  music,  the  bonfires,  were  gone;  bit  by  bit  he  pieced 
together  the  life  he  had  lived  in  his  youth,  and  at  the  thought  of 
it,  and  that  it  was  now  over,  he  threw  back  his  head  and  gave 
thanks  where  they  were  due. 

At  that  moment  he  heard  a  tap  at  the  window-pane,  and  turn- 
ing about  he  saw  a  man's  haggard  face  peering  in  at  him  from 
the  darkness.  Then  he  rose  instantly,  and  threw  open  the  door  of 
the  porch. 

"Come  in,"  he  called. 

The  man  entered. 

He  took  one  step  into  the  house  and  stopped,  seemed  for  a  mo- 
ment puzzled,  dazed,  sleepless,  and  then  by  a  sudden  impulse  stepped 
quietly  forward,  pulled  up  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt  and  held  out  his 
arm.  Around  his  wrist  there  was  a  circular  abrasure  where  the 
loop  of  a  fetter  had  worn  away  the  skin,  leaving  the  naked  flesh 
raw  and  red. 

He  had  been  in  irons. 

With  a  word  of  welcome  the  Governor  motioned  the  man  to  a 
seat.  Some  inarticulate  sounds  the  man  made  and  waved  his  hand. 


THE   BONDMAN  27 

He  was  a  foreigner.     What  was  his  craft? 

A  tiny  model  of  a  full-rigged  ship  stood  on  the  top  of  a  corner 
cupboard.  Adam  pointed  to  it,  and  the  man  gave  a  quick  nod 
of  assent. 

He  was  a  seaman.     Of  what  country? 

"Shetlands?"  asked  the  Governor. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"Sweden?  Norway? — " 

"Issland,"  said  the  man. 

He  was  an  Icelander. 

Two  rude  portraits  hung  on  the  walls,  one  of  a  fair  boy,  the 
other  of  a  woman  in  the  early  bloom  of  womanhood — Adam's 
young  wife  and  first  child.  The  Governor  pointed  to  the  boy,  and 
the  man  shook  his  head. 

He  had  no  family. 

The  Governor  pointed  to  the  woman,  and  the  man  hesitated, 
seemed  about  to  assent,  and  then,  with  the  look  of  one  who  tries  to 
banish  an  unwelcome  thought,  shook  his  head  again. 

He  had  no  wife.     What  was  his  name? 

The  Governor  took  down  from  a  shelf  a  Bible  covered  in  green 
cloth,  and  opened  at  the  writing  on  the  fly-leaf  between  the  Old 
and  New  Testaments.  The  writing  ran: — "Adam  Fairbrother, 
son  of  Jo:  Fairbrother,  and  Mar:  his  wife,  was  born  August  the 
nth,  1753,  about  5  o'clock  in  the  morning,  half  flood,  wind  at  south- 
west, and  christened  August  18."  To  this  he  pointed,  then  to  him- 
self, and  finally  to  the  stranger.  An  abrupt  change  came  over 
the  man's  manner.  He  grew  sullen  and  gave  no  sign.  But  his 
eyes  wandered  with  a  fierce  eagerness  to  the  table,  where  the  re- 
mains of  the  Governor's  supper  were  still  lying. 

Adam  drew  up  a  chair  and  motioned  the  stranger  to  sit  and  eat. 
The  man  ate  with  frightful  voracity,  the  perspiration  breaking 
out  in  beads  over  his  face.  Having  eaten,  he  grew  drowsy,  fell 
to  nodding  where  he  sat,  and  in  a  moment  of  recovered  conscious- 
ness pointed  to  the  stuffed  head  of  a  horse  that  hung  over  the  door. 
He  wished  to  sleep  in  the  stable. 

The  Governor  lit  a  lantern  and  led  the  way  to  the  stable  loft. 
There  the  man  stretched  himself  on  the  straw,  and  soon  his  long 
and  measured  breathing  told  that  he  slept. 

Hardly  had  the  Governor  got  back  to  the  house  when  his  boys, 
his  men,  and  the  maids  returned  from  Ramsey.  Very  full  they  all 
were  of  the  doings  of  the  day,  and  Adam,  who  never  asked  that  son 
or  servant  of  his  should  abridge  the  flow  of  talk  for  his  presence, 
sat  with  his  face  to  the  fire  and  smoked,  dozed,  dreamt  or  thought, 


28  THE   BONDMAN 

and  left  his  people  to  gossip  on.  What  chance  had  brought  the 
poor  man  to  his  door  that  night  ?  An  Icelander,  dumb  for  all  uses 
of  speech,  who  had  lain  in  the  chains  of  some  tyrant  captain — a 
lone  man,  a  seaman  without  wife  or  child  in  his  own  country,  and 
a  fugitive,  a  runaway,  a  hunted  dog  in  this  one!  What  angel  of 
pleading  had  that  very  night  been  busy  in  his  own  memory  with  the 
story  of  his  similar  sufferings  ? 

All  at  once  his  ear  was  arrested  by  what  was  being  said  be- 
•hind  him.  The  talk  was  of  a  sailor  who  had  passed  through  the 
town,  and  of  the  blue-jackets  who  were  in  pursuit  of  him.  He  had 
stolen  something.  No,  he  had  murdered  somebody.  Anyway  there 
was  a  warrant  for  his  arrest,  for  the  High  Bailiff  had  drawn  it. 
An  ill-looking  fellow,  but  he  would  be  caught  yet,  thank  goodness, 
in  God's  good  time. 

The  Governor  twisted  about,  and  asked  what  the  sailor  was  like, 
and  his  boys  answered  him  that  he  was  a  foreigneering  sort  of  a 
man  in  a  skin  cap  and  long  stockings,  and  bigger  by  half  a  head 
than  Billy-by-Nite. 

Just  then  there  was  the  tramp  of  feet  on  the  gravel  outside  and 
a  loud  rap  at  the  door.  Four  men  entered.  They  were  the  blue- 
jackets. The  foreign  seaman  that  they  were  in  search  of  had 
been  seen  creeping  up  Ballure,  and  turning  down  toward  Lague. 
Had  he  been  there? 

At  that  one  of  the  boys,  saying  that  his  father  had  been  at 
home  all  evening,  turned  to  the  Governor  and  repeated  the  ques- 
tion. But  the  good  Adam  had  twisted  back  to  the  fire,  and  with  the 
shank  of  his  pipe  hanging  loosely  from  his  lips,  was  now  snoring 
heavily." 

"His  Excellency  is  asleep,"  said  the  blue-jacket. 

No,  no;  that  could  not  be,  for  he  had  been  talking  as  they 
entered.  "Father,"  cried  the  lad,  and  pushed  him. 

Then  the  Governor  opened  his  eyes,  and  yawned  heavily.  The 
blue-jacket,  cap  in  hand,  told  his  story  again,  and  the  good  Adam 
seemed  to  struggle  hard  in  the  effort  to  grasp  it  through  the  mists 
of  sleep.  At  length  he  said,  "What  has  the  man  done  ?" 

"Deserted  his  ship,  your  Excellency." 

"Nothing  else — no  crime?" 

"Nothing  else,  your  Excellency.     Has  he  been  here?" 

"No,"  said  the  Governor. 

And  at  that  the  weary  man  shut  his  eyes  again  and  began  to 
breathe  most  audibly.  But  when  the  blue- jackets,  taking  counsel 
together,  concluded  that  somewhere  thereabout  the  man  must  surely 
be,  and  decided  to  sleep  the  night  in  the  stable  loft,  that  they  might 


THE   BONDMAN  29 

scour  the  country  in  the  morning,  the  Governor  awoke  suddenly, 
saying  he  had  no  beds  to  offer  them,  but  they  might  sleep  on  the 
benches  of  the  kitchen. 

An  hour  later,  when  all  Lague  was  asleep,  Adam  rose  from  his 
bed,  took  a  dark  lantern  and  went  back  to  the  stable  loft,  aroused 
the  Icelander,  and  motioned  him  to  follow.  They  crossed  the 
paved  courtyard  and  came  in  front  of  the  window.  Adam  pointed 
and  the  man  looked  in.  The  four  blue-jackets  were  lying  on  the 
benches  drawn  round  the  fire,  and  the  dull  glow  of  the  slumbering 
peat  was  on  their  faces.  They  were  asleep.  At  that  sight  the 
man's  eyes  flashed,  his  mouth  set  hard,  the  muscles  of  his  cheeks 
contracted,  and  with  a  hoarse  cry  in  his  throat,  he  fumbled  the  haft 
of  the  seaman's  knife  that  hung  in  his  belt  and  made  one  step 
forward. 

But  Adam,  laying  hold  of  his  arm,  looked  into  his  eyes  stead- 
fastly, and  in  the  light  of  the  lantern  their  wild  glance  fell  before 
him.  At  the  next  instant  the  man  was  gone. 

The  night  was  now  far  spent.  In  the  town  the  forts  were  silent, 
the  streets  quiet,  the  market-place  vacant,  and  on  the  hilltops  the 
fires  had  smoldered  down.  By  daybreak  next  morning  the  blue- 
jackets had  gone  back  empty-handed  to  Ramsey,  and  by  sunrise  the 
English  brig  had  sailed  out  of  the  bay. 

Two  beautiful  creeks  lie  to  the  south  of  Ramsey  and  north  of 
Maughold  Head.  One  is  called  Lague,  the  other  Port-y-Vullin. 
On  the  shore  of  Port-y-Vullin  there  is  a  hut  built  of  peat  and 
thatched  with  broom — dark,  damp,  boggy,  and  ruinous,  a  ditch 
where  the  tenant  is  allowed  to  sit  rent  free.  The  sun  stood  high 
when  a  woman,  coming  out  of  this  place,  found  a  man  sleeping 
in  a  broken-ribbed  boat  that  lay  side  down  on  the  beach.  She 
awakened  him,  and  asked  him  into  her  hut.  He  rose  to  his  feet 
and  followed  her.  Last  night  he  had  been  turned  out  of  the  best 
house  in  the  island ;  this  morning  he  was  about  to  be  received  into 
the  worst. 

The  woman  was  Liza  Killey — the  slut,  the  trollop,  the  trull,  the 
slattern  and  drab  of  the  island. 

The  man  was  Stephen  Orry. 


3o  THE   BONDMAN 


CHAPTER  V 

LITTLE     SUNLOCKS 

ONE  month  only  had  then  passed  since  the  night  of  Stephen 
Orry's  flight  from  Iceland,  and  the  story  of  his  fortunes  in  the 
meantime  is  quickly  told.  In  shame  of  his  brutal  blow,  as  well 
as  fear  of  his  wife's  threat,  he  had  stowed  away  in  the  hold  of  an 
English  ship  that  sailed  the  same  night.  Two  days  later  famine 
had  brought  him  out  of  his  hiding  place,  and  he  had  been  compelled 
to  work  before  the  mast.  In  ten  more  days  he  had  signed  articles 
as  able  seaman  at  the  first  English  port  of  call.  Then  had  followed 
punishments  for  sloth,  punishments  for  ignorance,  and  punishments 
for  not  knowing  the  high-flavored  language  of  his  boatswain. 
After  that  had  come  bickerings,  threats,  scowls,  oaths,  and  open 
ruptures  with  this  chief  of  petty  tyrants,  ending  with  the  blow 
of  a  marlin-spike  over  the  big  Icelander's  crown,  and  the  little 
boatswain  rolling  headlong  overboard.  Then  had  followed  twenty- 
eight  days  spent  in  irons,  riveted  to  the  ship's  side  on  the  under 
deck,  with  bread  and  water  diet  every  second  day  and  nothing  be- 
tween. Finally,  by  the  secret  good  fellowship  of  a  shipmate  with 
some  bowels  of  compassion,  escape  had  come  after  starvation,  as 
starvation  had  come  after  slavery,  and  Stephen  had  swum  ashore 
while  his  ship  lay  at  anchor  in  Ramsey  Bay. 

What  occurred  thereafter  at  the  house  whereto  he  had  drifted 
no  one  could  rightly  tell.  He  continued  to  live  there  with  the 
trull  who  kept  it.  She  had  been  the  illegitimate  child  of  an  in- 
solvent English  debtor  and  the  daughter  of  a  neighboring  vicar, 
had  been  ignored  by  her  father,  put  out  to  nurse  by  her  mother, 
bred  in  ignorance,  reared  in  impurity,  and  had  grown  into  a  buxom 
hussy.  By  what  arts,  what  hints,  what  appeals,  what  allurements, 
this  trollop  got  possession  of  Stephen  Orry  it  is  not  hard  to  guess. 
First,  he  was  a  hunted  man,  and  only  one  who  dare  do  anything 
dare  open  doors  to  him.  Next,  he  was  a  foreigner,  dumb  for 
speech,  and  deaf  for  scandal,  and  therefore  unable  to  learn  more 
than  his  eyes  could  tell  him  of  the  woman  who  had  given  him 
shelter.  Then  the  big  Icelander  was  a  handsome  fellow;  and  the 
veriest  drab  that  ever  trailed  a  petticoat  knows  how  to  hide  her 
slatternly  habits  while  she  is  hankering  after  a  fine-grown  man. 
So  the  end  of  many  conspiring  circumstances  was  that  after  much 


THE    BONDMAN  31 

gossip  in  corners,  many  jeers,  and  some  tossings  of  female  heads, 
the  vicar  of  the  parish,  Parson  Cell,  called  one  day  at  the  hut  in 
Port-y-Vullin,  and  on  the  following  Sunday  morning,  at  church, 
little  Robbie  Christian,  the  clerk  and  sexton,  read  out  the  askings 
for  the  marriage  of  Liza  Killey,  spinster,  of  the  parish  of  Maug- 
hold,  and  Stephen  Orry,  bachelor,  out  of  Iceland. 

What  a  wedding  it  was  that  came  three  weeks  later !  Liza 
wore  a  gay  new  gown  that  had  been  lent  her  by  a  neighbor,  Bella 
Coobragh,  a  girl  who  had  meant  to  be  married  in  it  herself  the 
year  before,  but  had  not  fully  carried  out  her  moral  intention  and 
had  since  borne  a  child.  Wearing  such  borrowed  plumes  and  a 
brazen  smile  of  defiance,  Liza  strutted  up  to  the  Communion  rail, 
looking  impudently  into  the  men's  faces,  and  saucily  into  the 
women's — for  the  church  was  thronged  with  an  odorous  mob  that 
kept  up  the  jabbering  of  frogs  at  spawn — and  Stephen  Orry 
slouched  after  her  in  his  blowzy  garments  with  a  downward, 
shamefaced,  nervous  look  that  his  hulky  manners  could  not 
conceal. 

Then  what  a  wedding  feast  it  was  that  followed  !  The  little  cabin 
in  Port-y-Vullin  reeked  and  smoked  with  men  and  women,  and 
ran  out  on  to  the  sand  and  pebbles  of  the  beach,  for  the  time  of 
year  was  spring  and  the  day  was  clear  and  warm.  Liza's  old  lovers 
were  there  in  troops.  With  a  keg  of  rum  over  his  shoulder  Nary 
Crowe,  the  innkeeper,  had  come  down  from  the  "Hibernian"  to 
give  her  joy,  and  Cleave  Kinley,  the  butcher,  had  brought  her  up 
half  a  lamb  from  Ballaglass,  and  Matt  Mylechreest,  the  net  maker 
— a  venal  old  skinflint — had  charged  his  big  snuff  horn  to  the  brim 
for  the  many  noses  of  the  guests.  On  the  table,  the  form,  the  three- 
legged  stool,  the  bed,  and  the  hearth,  they  sat  together  cheek  by 
jowl,  their  hats  hung  on  the  roof  rafters,  their  plates  perched  on 
their  knees. 

And  loud  was  their  laughter  and  dubious  their  talk.  Old 
Thurstan  Coobragh  led  off  on  the  advantages  of  marriage,  saying 
it  was  middlin'  plain  that  the  gels  nowadays  must  be  wedded  when 
they  were  babies  in  arms,  for  bye-childers  were  common,  and  a 
gel's  father  didn't  care  in  a  general  way  to  look  like  a  fool;  but 
Nary  Crowe  saw  no  harm  in  a  bit  of  sweetheartin,'  and  Cleave 
Kinley  said  no,  of  course,  not  if  a  man  wasn't  puttin'  notions  into 
a  gel's  head,  and  Matt  Mylechreest,  for  his  part,  thought  the 
gels  were  amazin'  like  the  ghosts,  for  they  got  into  every  skeleton 
closet  about  the  house. 

"But  then,"  said  Matt,  "I'm  an  ould  bachelor,  as  the  sayin'  is, 
and  don't  know  nothin.' " 


32  THE   BONDMAN 

"Ha,  ha,  ha !  of  course  not,"  laughed  the  others ;  and  then  there 
was  a  taste  of  a  toast  to  Liza's  future  in  Nary's  rum. 

"Drop  it,"  said  Liza,  as  Nary,  lifting  his  cup,  leaned  over  to 
whisper. 

"So  I  will,  but  it'll  be  into  your  ear,  woman,"  said  Nary.  "So 
here's  to  the  king  that's  comin.' " 

By  this  time  Stephen  had  slipped  out  of  the  noisome  place,  and 
was  rambling  on  the  quiet  shore  alone,  with  head  bent,  cheeks  ashy 
pale,  eyes  fixed,  and  his  brawny  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets. 
At  last,  through  the  dense  fumes  within  the  house,  Bella  Coobragh 
noted  Stephen's  absence,  and  "Where's  your  man?"  she  said  to 
Liza,  with  tantalizing  light  in  her  eyes. 

"Maybe  where  yours  is,  Bella,"  said  Liza,  with  a  toss  of  the 
head ;  "near  enough,  perhaps,  but  not  visible  to  the  naked  eye." 

The  effects  of  going  to  church  on  Liza  Killey  were  what  they 
often  are  of  a  woman  of  base  nature.  With  a  man  to  work  for 
her  she  became  more  idle  than  before,  and  with  nothing  to  fear 
from  scandal  more  reckless  and  sluttish.  'Having  hidden  her 
nakedness  in  the  gown  of  marriage,  she  lost  the  last  rag  of 
womanly  shame. 

The  effects  on  Stephen  Orry  were  the  deepening  of  his  sloth, 
his  gloom  and  his  helplessness.  What  purpose  in  life  he  ever  had 
was  paralyzed.  On  his  first  coming  to  the  island  he  had  sailed 
to  the  mackerel  fishing  in  the  boats  of  Kane  Wade — a  shrewd 
Manxman,  who  found  the  big,  dumb  Icelander  a  skilful  fisherman. 
Now  he  neglected  his  work,  lost  self-reliance,  and  lay  about  for 
hours,  neither  thinking  nor  feeling,  but  with  a  look  of  sheer  stu- 
pidity. And  so  the  two  sat  together  in  their  ditch,  sinking  day  by 
day  deeper  and  yet  deeper  into  the  mire  of  idleness,  moroseness, 
and  mutual  loathing.  Nevertheless,  they  had  their  cheerful  hours 
together. 

The  "king"'  of  Nary's  toast  soon  came.  A  child  was  born — a 
bonny,  sunny  boy  as  ever  yet  drew  breath;  but  Liza  looked  on 
it  as  a  check  to  her  freedom,  a  drain  on  her  energy,  something 
helpless  and  looking  to  her  for  succor.  So  the  unnatural  mother 
neglected  it,  and  Stephen,  who  was  reminded  by  its  coming  that 
Rachel  had  been  about  to  give  birth  to  a  child,  turned  his  heart 
from  it  and  ignored  it. 

Thus  three  spirit-breaking  years  dragged  on,  and  Stephen  Orry 
grew  wo-begone  and  stone-eyed.  Of  old  he  had  been  slothful 
and  spiritless  indeed,  but  not  a  base  man.  Now  his  whole  nature 
was  all  but  gone  to  the  gutter.  He  had  once  been  a  truth-teller, 
but  living  with  a  woman  who  assumed  that  he  must  be  a  liar,  he 


THE   BONDMAN  33 

had  ended  by  becoming  one.  He  had  no  company  save  her  com- 
pany, for  his  slow  wit  had  found  it  hard  to  learn  the  English 
tongue,  and  she  alone  could  rightly  follow  him;  he  had  no  desires 
save  the  petty  ones  of  daily  food  and  drink ;  he  had  no  purpose  save 
the  degrading  purpose  of  defeating  the  nightly  wanderings  of  his 
drunken  wife.  Thus  without  any  human  eye  upon  him  in  the  dark 
way  he  was  going,  Stephen  Orry  had  grown  coarse  and  base. 

But  the  end  was  not  yet,  of  all  this  man  was  to  be  and  know. 
One  night,  after  spending  the  day  on  the  sea  with  the  lines  for 
cod,  the  year  deepening  to  winter,  the  air  muggy  and  cold,  he  went 
away  home,  hungry,  and  wet,  and  cold,  leaving  his  mates  at  the 
door  of  the  "Plow,"  where  there  was  good  company  within  and  the 
cheer  of  a  busy  fire !  Home !  On  reaching  Port-y-Vullin  he  found 
the  door  open,  the  hearth  cold,  the  floor  in  a  puddle  from  the  driv- 
ing rain,  not  a  bite  or  sup  in  the  cupboard,  and  his  wife  lying 
drunk  across  the  bed,  with  the  child  in  its  grimy  blueness  creeping 
and  crying  about  her  head. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Once  again  he  fumbled  the 
haft  of  his  seaman's  knife,  and  then  by  a  quick  impulse  he  plucked 
up  the  child  in  his  arms. 

"Now  God  be  praised  for  your  poor  face,"  he  said,  and  while  he 
dried  the  child's  pitiful  eyes,  the  hot  drops  started  to  his  own. 

He  lit  the  fire,  he  cooked  a  cod  he  had  brought  home  with  him, 
he  ate  himself  and  fed  the  little  one.  Then  he  sat  before  the 
hearth  with  the  child  at  his  breast,  as  any  mother  might  do,  for  at 
length  it  had  come  to  him  to  know  that,  if  it  was  not  to  be  lost 
and  worse  than  orphaned,  he  must  henceforth  be  father  and  mother 
both  to  it. 

And  when  the  little  eyes,  wet  no  longer,  but  laughing  like 
sunshine  into  the  big  seared  face  above  them  struggled  in  vain  with 
sleep,  he  wrapped  the  child  in  his  ragged  guernsey  and  put  it  to 
lie  like  a  bundle  where  the  fire  could  warm  it.  Then  all  being  done 
he  sat  again,  and  leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees  covered  his 
ears  with  his  hands,  so  that  they  might  shut  out  the  sound  of  the 
woman's  heavy  breathing. 

It  was  on  that  night,  for  the  first  time  since  he  fled  from  Ice- 
land, that  he  saw  the  full  depth  of  his  offense.  Offense?  Crime  it 
was,  and  that  of  the  blackest;  and  in  the  terror  of  his  loneliness 
he  trembled  at  the  thought  that  some  day  his  horrible  dumb  secret 
would  become  known,  that  something  would  happen  to  tell  it — that 
he  was  married  already  when  he  married  the  woman  who  lay  be- 
hind him. 

At  that  he  saw  how  low  he  had  fallen — from  her  who  once  had 


34  THE   BONDMAN 

been  so  pure  and  true  beside  him,  and  had  loved  him  and  given  up 
father,  and  home,  and  fame  for  him ;  to  this  trull,  'who  now  dragged 
him  through  the  slush,  and  trod  on  him  and  hated  him.  Then  the 
bitter  thought  came  that  what  she  had  suffered  for  him  who  had 
given  him  everything,  he  could  never  repay  by  one  kind  word  or 
look.  Lost  she  was  to  him  forever  and  ever,  and  parted  from  him 
by  a  yet  wider  gulf  than  eight  hundred  miles  of  sea.  Such  was  the 
agony  of  his  shame,  and  through  it  all  the  snore  of  the  sleeping 
woman  went  like  iron  through  his  head,  so  that  at  last  he  wrapped 
his  arms  about  it  and  sobbed  out  to  the  dead  fire  at  his  feet,  "Rachel ! 
Rachel!  Rachel!" 

All  at  once  he  became  conscious  that  the  heavy  breathing  had 
ceased,  that  the  house  was  silent,  that  something  had  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder,  and  that  a  gaunt  shadow  stood  beside  him.  It 
was  the  woman,  who  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  had  arisen  from  her 
drunken  sleep,  and  now  gasped: 

"Who  is  Rachel?" 

At  that  word  his  blood  ran  cold,  and  shivering  in  his  clothes, 
he  crouched  lower  at  the  hearth,  neither  answering  her  nor  look- 
ing up. 

Then  with  eyes  of  hate  she  cried  again: 

"Who  is  Rachel?" 

But  the  only  voice  that  answered  her  was  the  voice  that  rang 
within  him — "I'm  a  lost  man,  God  help  me." 

"Who  is  Rachel?"  the  woman  cried  once  more,  and  the  sound 
of  that  name  from  her  lips,  hardening  it,  brutalizing  it,  befouling  it, 
was  the  most  awful  thing  by  which  his  soul  had  yet  been  shaken 
out  of  its  stupor. 

"Who  is  she,  I  say?  Answer  me,"  she  cried  in  a  raging  voice; 
but  he  crouched  there  still,  with  his  haggard  face  and  misty  eyes 
turned  down. 

Then  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  shook  him,  and 
cried  bitterly. 

"Who  is  she,  this  light  o'  love— this  baggage?" 

At  that  he  stiffened  himself  up,  shuddered  from  head  to  foot, 
flung  her  from  him  and  answered  in  a  terrible  voice: 

"Woman,  she  is  my  wife." 

That  word,  like  a  thunderbolt,  left  a  heavy  silence  behind  it. 
Liza  stood  looking  in  terror  at  Stephen's  face,  unable  to  utter 
a  cry. 

But  next  day  she  went  to  Parson  Cell  and  told  him  all.  She 
got  small  comfort.  Parson  Cell  had  himself  had  two  wives;  the 
first  had  deserted  him,  and  after  an  interval  of  six  years,  in  which 


THE   BONDMAN  35 

he  had  not  heard  from  her,  he  had  married  the  second.  So  to 
Liza  he  said: 

"He  may  have  sinned  against  the  law,  but  what  proof  have 
you  ?  None." 

Then  she  went  to  the  Deemster  at  Ramsey.  It  was  Deemster 
Lace — a  bachelor  much  given  to  secret  gallantries. 

She  got  as  little  cheer  from  this  source,  but  yet  she  came 
away  with  one  drop  of  solace  fermenting  in  the  bitterness  of 
her  heart. 

"Tut,  woman,  it's  more  common  than  you  think  for.  And 
where's  the  harm  ?  Och !  it's  happened  to  some  of  the  best  that's 
going.  Now,  if  he'd  beaten  you,  or  struck  you" — and  the  good  man 
raised  both  hands  and  shook  his  head. 

Then  the  thought  leaped  to  her  mind  that  she  herself  could 
punish  Stephen  a  hundredfold  worse  than  any  law  of  bishop  or 
deemster.  If  she  could  she  would  not  now  put  him  away.  He 
should  live  on  with  her,  husband  or  no  husband,  and  she  with  him, 
wife  or  no  wife. 

On  her  way  home  she  called  at  the  house  of  Kane  Wade,  sat 
down  with  old  Bridget;  shed  some  crocodile  tears,  vowed  she 
daren't  have  tould  it  on  no  account  to  no  other  morthal  sowl,  but 
would  the  heart  of  woman  belave  it?  her  man  had  a  wife  in  his 
own  counthry ! 

Bridget,  who  had  herself  had  four  husbands,  lifted  her  hands 
in  horror,  and  next  day  when  Stephen  Orry  went  down  to  the 
boats  Kane  Wade,  who  had  newly  turned  Methodist,  was  there 
already,  and  told  him — whittling  a  stick  as  he  spoke — that  the  fish- 
ing was  wonderful  lean  living  gettin',  and  if  he  didn't  shorten 
hands  it  would  be  goin'  begging  on  the  houses  they'd  all  be,  sarten 
sure. 

Stephen  took  the  hint  in  silence,  and  went  off  home.  Liza  saw 
him  coming,  watched  him  from  the  door,  and  studied  his  hard 
set  face  with  a  grim  smile  on  her  own. 

Next  day  Stephen  went  off  to  Matt  Mylechreest,  the  net-maker, 
but  Matt  shook  his  head,  saying  the  Manxmen  had  struck  against 
foreign  men  all  over  the  island,  and  would  not  work  with  them. 
The  day  after  that  Stephen  tried  Nary  Crowe,  the  innkeeper,  but 
Nary  said  of  course  it  wasn't  himself  that  was  partic'lar,  only  his 
customers  were  gettin'  extraordinary  nice  about  a  man's  moral 
character. 

As  a  last  hope  Stephen  went  up  to  Cleave  Kinley,  who  had  land, 
and  asked  for  a  croft  of  five  acres  that  ran  down  to  the  beach  of 
Port-y-Vullin. 


36  THE   BONDMAN 

"Nothing  easier,"  said  Kinley,  "but  I  must  have  six  pounds  for 
it,  beginning  half-quarter  day." 

The  rent  was  high,  but  Stephen  agreed  to  it,  and  promised  to  go 
again  the  following  day  to  seal  his  bargain.  Stephen  was  prompt 
to  his  engagement,  but  Kinley  had  gone  on  the  mountains  after 
some  sheep.  Stephen  waited,  and  four  hours  later  Kinley  returned, 
looking  abashed  but  dogged  and  saying  he  must  have  good  security 
or  a  year's  rent  down. 

Stephen  went  back  home  with  his  head  deep  in  his  breast. 
Again  the  woman  saw  him  coming,  again  she  studied  his  face, 
and  again  she  laughed  in  her  heart. 

"He  will  lift  his  hand  to  me,"  she  thought,  "and  then  we 
shall  see." 

But  he  seemed  to  read  her  purpose,  and  determined  to  defeat  it. 
She  might  starve  him,  herself,  and  their  child,  but  the  revenge  she 
had  set  her  mind  upon  she  should  not  have. 

Yet  to  live  with  her  and  to  contain  himself  at  every  brutal  act 
or  bestial  word  was  more  than  he  could  trust  himself  to  do,  and  he 
determined  to  fly  away.  Let  it  be  anywhere — anywhere,  if  only 
out  of  the  torture  of  her  presence.  One  place  was  like  another  in 
Man,  for  go  where  he  would  to  any  corner  of  the  island,  there  she 
would  surely  follow  him. 

Old  Thurston  Coobragh,  of  Ballacreggan,  gave  him  work  at 
draining  a  flooded  meadow.  It  was  slavery  that  no  other  Chris- 
tian man  would  do,  but  for  a  month  Stephen  Orry  worked  up  to 
his  waist  in  water,  and  lived  on  barley,  bread,  and  porridge.  At 
the  end  of  his  job  he  had  six  and  thirty  shillings  saved,  and  with 
this  money  in  his  pocket,  and  the  child  in  his  arms,  he  hurried  down 
to  the  harbor  at  Ramsey,  where  an  Irish  packet  lay  ready  to  sail. 

Could  he  have  passage  to  Ireland?  Certainly  he  could,  but 
where  was  his  license? 

Stephen  Orry  had  never  heard  until  then  that  before  a  man 
could  leave  the  Isle  of  Man  he  must  hold  a  license  permitting  him 
to  do  so. 

"Go  to  the  High  Bailiff,"  said  the  captain  of  the  packet;  and 
to  the  High  Bailiff  Stephen  Orry  went. 

"I  come  for  a  license  to  go  away  into  Ireland,"  he  said.  "Very 
good.  But  where  is  your  wife  ?"  said  the  High  Bailiff.  "Are  you 
leaving  her  behind  you  to  be  a  burden  on  the  parish?" 

At  that  Stephen's  heart  sank,  for  he  saw  that  his  toil  had  been 
wasted,  and  that  his  savings  were  worthless.  Doomed  he  was  for 
all  his  weary  days  to  live  with  the  woman  who  hated  him.  He 
was  bound  to  her,  he  was  leashed  to  her,  and  he  must  go  begrimed 


THE   BONDMAN  37 

and  bedraggled  to  the  dregs  of  life  with  her.  So  he  went  back 
home,  and  hid  his  money  in  a  hole  in  the  thatch  of  the  roof,  that 
the  touch  of  it  might  vex  his  memory  no  more. 

And  then  it  flashed  upon  him  that  what  he  was  now  suffering 
from  this  woman  was  after  all  no  more  than  the  complement  and 
counterpart  of  what  Rachel  had  suffered  from  him  in  the  years 
behind  them.  It  was  just — yes,  it  was  just — and  because  he  was 
a  man  and  Rachel  a  woman,  it  was  less  than  he  deserved.  So 
thinking,  he  sat  himself  down  in  his  misery  with  resignation  if 
not  content,  vowing  never  to  lift  his  hand  to  the  woman,  however 
tormented,  and  never  to  leave  her,  however  tempted.  And  when 
one  night  after  a  storm  an  open  boat  came  ashore,  he  took  it  and 
used  it  to  fish  with,  and  thus  he  lived,  and  thus  he  wore  away 
his  wretched  days. 

And  yet  he  could  never  have  borne  his  punishment  but  for  the 
sweet  solace  of  the  child.  It  was  the  flower  in  his  dungeon ;  the 
bird  at  its  bars.  Since  that  bad  night,  when  his  secret  had  burst 
from  him,  he  had  nursed  it  and  cherished  it,  and  done  for  it  its 
many  tender  offices.  Every  day  he  had  softened  its  oatcake  in  his 
broth;  and  lifted  the  barley  out  of  his  own  bowl  into  the  child's 
basin.  In  summer  he  had  stripped  off  shoes  and  stockings  to  bathe 
the  little  one  in  the  bay,  and  in  winter  he  had  wrapped  the  child 
in  his  jacket  and  gone  bare-armed.  It  was  now  four  years  old 
and  went  everywhere  with  Stephen,  astride  on  his  broad  back  or 
perched  on  his  high  shoulders.  He  had  christened  it  Michael,  but 
because  its  long  wavy  hair  grew  to  be  of  the  color  of  the  sun  he 
called  it,  after  the  manner  of  his  people,  Sunlocks.  And  like  the 
sun  it  was,  in  that  hut  in  Port-y-Vullin,  for  when  it  awoke  there 
was  a  glint  of  rosy  light,  and  when  it  slept  all  was  gloom. 

He  taught  it  to  speak  his  native  Icelandic  tongue,  and  the 
woman,  who  found  everything  evil  that  Stephen  did,  found  this  a 
barrier  between  her  and  the  child.  It  was  only  in  his  ignorance 
that  he  did  it.  But  oh,  strange  destiny!  that  out  of  the  father's 
ignorance  was  to  shape  the  child's  wisdom  in  the  days  that  were 
to  come! 

And  little  Sunlocks  was  eyes  and  ears  to  Stephen,  and  hope  to 
his  crushed  spirit  and  intelligence  to  his  slow  mind.  At  sight  of  the 
child  the  vacant  look  would  die  away  from  Stephen's  face;  at 
play  with  him  Stephen's  great  hulking  legs  would  run  hither  and 
thither  in  ready  willingness;  and  at  hearing  his  strange  questions, 
his  wondrous  answers,  his  pretty  clever  sayings,  Stephen's  dense 
wit  would  seem  to  stand  agape. 

Oh,  little  Sunlocks — little  Sunlocks — floating  like  the  day-dawn 


38  THE   BONDMAN 

into  this  lone  man's  prison  house,  how  soon  was  your  glad  light  to 
be  overcast !  For  all  at  once  it  smote  Stephen  like  a  blow  on  the 
brain  that  though  it  was  right  that  he  should  live  with  the  woman, 
yet  it  was  an  awful  thing  that  the  child  should  continue  to  do  so. 
Growing  up  in  such  an  atmosphere,  with  such  an  example  always 
present  to  his  eyes,  what  would  the  child  become?  Soured,  sad- 
dened, perhaps  cunning,  perhaps  malicious;  at  least  adapting  him- 
self, as  his  father  had  done  before  him,  to  the  air  he  had  to  breathe. 
And  thinking  that  little  Sunlocks,  now  so  sweet,  so  sunny,  so  art- 
less, so  innocent,  must  come  to  this,  all  the  gall  of  Stephen  Orry's 
fate  rose  to  his  throat  again. 

What  could  he  do?  Take  little  Sunlocks  away?  That  was 
impossible,  for  he  could  not  take  himself  away.  Why  had  the  child 
been  born  ?  Why  had  it  not  died  ?  Would  not  the  good  God  take 
it  back  to  Himself  even  now,  ir.  all  the  sweetness  of  his  childhood? 
No,  no,  no,  not  that  either ;  and  yet  yes,  yes,  yes ! 

Stephen's  poor  slow  brain  struggled  long  with  this  thought,  and 
at  length  a  strange  and  solemn  idea  took  hold  of  it :  little  Sunlocks 
must  die,  and  he  must  kill  him. 

Stephen  Orry  did  not  wriggle  with  his  conscience,  or  if  he 
cozened  it  at  all  he  made  himself  believe  that  it  would  not  be  sin 
but  sacrifice  to  part  with  the  thing  he  held  dearest  in  all  the  world. 
Little  Sunlocks  was  his  life,  but  little  Sunlocks  must  die !  Better, 
better,  better  so! 

And  having  thus  determined,  he  went  cautiously,  and  even 
cunningly,  to  work.  When  the  little  one  had  disappeared,  he  him- 
self would  never  be  suspected,  for  all  the  island  would  say  he 
loved  it  too  tenderly  to  do  it  a  wrong,  and  he  would  tell  everybody 
that  he  had  taken  it  to  some  old  body  in  the  south  who  had  wished 
to  adopt  a  child.  So,  with  Sunlocks  laughing  and  crowing  astride 
his  shoulder,  he  called  at  Kane  Wade's  house  on  Ballure  one  day, 
and  told  Bridget  how  he  should  miss  the  little  chap,  for  Sunlocks 
was  going  down  to  the  Calf  very  soon,  and  would  not  come  home 
again  for  a  long  time,  perhaps  not  many  a  year,  perhaps  not  until 
he  was  a  big  slip  of  a  lad,  and,  maybe— who  can  tell?— he  would 
never  come  back  at  all. 

Thus  he  laid  his  plans,  but  even  when  they  were  complete  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  carry  them  through,  until  one  day,  going 
up  from  the  beach  to  sell  a  basket  of  crabs  and  eels,  he  found  Liza 
drinking  at  the  "Hibernian." 

How  she  came  by  the  money  was  at  first  his  surprise,  for 
Nary  Crowe  had  long  abandoned  her ;  and  having  bitter  knowledge 
of  the  way  she  had  once  spent  his  earnings,  he  himself  gave  her 


THE   BONDMAN  39 

nothing  now.  But  suddenly  a  dark  thought  came,  and  he  hurried 
home,  thrust  his  hand  into  the  thatch  where  he  had  hidden  his 
savings,  and  found  the  place  empty. 

That  was  the  day  to  do  it,  he  thought ;  and  he  took  little  Sunlocks 
and  washed  his  chubby  face  and  combed  his  yellow  hair,  curling  it 
over  his  own  great  undeft  fingers,  and  put  his  best  clothes  on  him — 
the  white  cotton  pinafore  and  the  red  worsted  cap,  and  the  blue 
stockings  freshly  darned. 

This  he  did  that  he  might  comfort  the  child  for  the  last  time, 
and  also  that  he  might  remember  him  at  his  best. 

And  little  Sunlocks,  in  high  glee  at  such  busy  preparations, 
laughed  much  and  chattered  long,  asking  many  questions. 

"Where  are  we  going,  father?    Out?    Eh?    Where?" 

"We'll  see,  little  Sunlocks;  we'll  see." 

"But  where?    Church?    What  day  is  this?" 

"The  last,  little  Sunlocks;  the  last." 

"Oh,  I  know — Sunday." 

When  all  was  ready,  Stephen  lifted  the  child  to  the  old  perch' 
across  his  shoulders,  and  made  for  the  shore.  His  boat  was  lying 
aground  there;  he  pushed  it  adrift,  lifted  the  child  into  it,  and 
leaped  after  him.  Then  taking  the  oars,  he  pulled  out  for  Maug- 
hold  Head. 

Little  Sunlocks  had  never  been  out  in  the  boat  before,  and 
everything  was  a  wonder  and  delight  to  him. 

"You  said  you  would  take  me  on  the  water  some  day.  Didn't 
you,  father?" 

"Yes,  little  Sunlocks,  yes." 

It  was  evening,  and  the  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  land,  very 
large  and  red  in  its  setting. 

"Do  the  sun  fall  down  eve'y  day,  father?" 

"It  sets,  little  Sunlocks,  it  sets." 

"What  is  sets?" 

"Dies." 

"Oh." 

The  waters  lay  asleep  under  the  soft  red  glow,  and  over  them 
the  sea-fowl  were  sailing. 

"Why  are  the  white  birds  sc'eaming?" 

"Maybe  they're  calling  their  young,  little  Sunlocks." 

It  was  late  spring,  and  on  the  headland  the  sheep  were  bleating. 

"Look  at  the  baby  one — away,  away  up  yonder.  What's  it  doing 
there  by  itself  on  the  'ock,  and  c'ying,  and  c'ying,  and  c'ying?" 

"Maybe  it's  lost,  little  Sunlocks." 

"Then  why  doesn't  somebody  go  and  tell  its  father  ?" 


4o  THE    BONDMAN 

And  the  innocent  face  was  full  of  trouble. 

The  sun  went  down  and  the  twilight  deepened,  the  air  grew 
chill,  the  waters  black,  and  Stephen  was  still  pulling  round  the  head. 

"Father,  where  does  the  night  go  when  we  are  asleep?" 

"To  the  other  world,   little  Sunlocks." 

"Oh,  I  know — heaven." 

Stephen  stripped  off  his  guernsey  and  wrapped  it  about  the 
child.  His  eyes  shone  brightly,  his  mouth  was  parched,  but  he  did 
not  flinch.  All  thoughts,  save  one  thought,  had  faded  from  his 
view. 

As  he  came  by  Port  Mooar  the  moon  rose,  and  about  the  same 
time  the  light  appeared  on  Point  of  Ayre.  A  little  later  he  saw 
the  twikle  of  lesser  lights  to  the  south.  They  were  the  lights 
of  Laxey,  where  many  happy  children  gladdened  many  happy  fire- 
sides. He  looked  around.  There  was  not  a  sail  in  sight,  and  not 
a  sound  came  to  his  ears  over  the  low  murmur  of  the  sea's  gentle 
swell.  "Now  is  the  time,"  he  thought.  He  put  in  his  oars  and  the 
boat  began  to  drift. 

But  no,  he  could  not  look  into  the  child's  eyes  and  do  it.  The 
little  one  would  sleep  soon  and  then  it  would  be  easier  done.  So 
he  took  him  in  his  arms  and  wrapped  him  in  a  piece  of  sail-cloth. 

"Shut  your  eyes  and  sleep,  little  Sunlocks." 

"I'm  not  sleepy,  I'm  not." 

Yet  soon  the  little  lids  fell,  opened  again  and  fell  once  more, 
and  then  suddenly  the  child  started  up. 

"But  I  haven't  said  my  p'ayers." 

"Say  them  now,  little  Sunlocks." 

"Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild,  Look  upon  a  little  child,  Guard 
me  while  in  sleep  I  lie,  Take  me  to  Thy  home  on — on — " 

"Would  you  like  to  go  to  heaven,  little  Sunlocks?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  want  to  keep  with — with — my  fath — " 

The  little  eyes  were  closed  by  this  time,  and  the  child  was 
asleep  on  Stephen's  knees.  Now  was  the  time — now — now.  But 
no,  it  was  harder  now  than  ever. 

The  little  face — so  silent,  so  peaceful — how  formidable  it  was! 
The  little  soft  hand  in  his  own  big  hard  palm — how  strong  and 
terrible ! 

Stephen  looked  down  at  the  child  and  his  bowels  yearned  over 
it.  It  cost  him  a  struggle  not  to  kiss  it;  but  no,  that  would  only 
make  the  task  harder. 

Suddenly  a  new  thought  smote  him.    What  had  this  child  done 


THE   BONDMAN  41 

that  he  should  take  its  life?  Who  was  he  that  he  should  rob  it 
of  what  he  could  never  give  it  again  ?  By  what  right  did  he  dare 
to  come  between  this  living  soul  and  heaven?  When  did  the 
Almighty  God  tell  him  what  the  after  life  of  this  babe  was  to  be? 
Stephen  trembled  at  the  thought.  It  was  like  a  voice  from  the 
skies  calling  on  him  to  stop,  and  a  hand  reaching  out  of  them  to 
snatch  the  child  from  his  grasp. 

What  he  had  intended  to  do  was  not  to  be !  Heaven  had  set  its 
face  against  it !  Little  Sunlocks  was  not  to  die !  Little  Sunlocks 
was  to  live!  Thank  God!  Oh!  Thank  God! 

But  late  that  night  a  group  of  people  standing  at  their  doors 
on  the  beach  at  Port  Lague  saw  a  tall  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  go 
by  in  the  darkness,  with  a  sleeping  child  in  his  arms.  The  man 
was  Stephen  Orry,  and  he  was  sobbing  like  a  woman  whose  heart 
is  broken.  The  child  was  little  Sunlocks,  and  he  was  being  carried 
back  to  his  mother's  home. 

The  people  hailed  Stephen  and  told  him  that  a  foreigner  from  a 
ship  in  the  bay  had  been  asking  for  him  that  evening.  They  had 
sent  the  man  along  to  Port-y-Vullin. 

Stephen  hurried  home  with  fear  in  his  heart.  In  five  minutes 
he  was  there,  and  then  his  life's  blood  ran  cold.  He  found  the 
house  empty,  except  for  his  wife,  and  she  lay  outstretched  on  the 
floor.  She  was  cold — she  was  dead;  and  in  clay  on  the  wall  above 
her  head,  these  words  were  written  in  the  Icelandic  tongue:  "So 
is  Patricksen  avenged — signed  S.  Patricksen." 

Avenged !  Oh,  powers  of  Heaven,  that  drive  the  petty  passions 
of  men  like  dust  before  you ! 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  LITTLE  WORLD  OF  BOY  AND  GIRL 

THREE  days  later  the  bad  lottery  of  Liza  Killey's  life  and  death 
was  played  out  and  done.  On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  some 
time  before  the  dawn,  though  the  mists  were  rolling  in  front  of 
it,  Stephen  Orry  rose  in  his  silent  hut  in  Port-y-Vullin,  lit  a  fire, 
cooked  a  hasty  meal,  wakened,  washed,  dressed,  and  fed  little 
Sunlocks,  then  nailed  up  the  door  from  the  outside,  lifted  the 
child  to  his  shoulders,  and  turned  his  face  toward  the  south.  When 
he  passed  through  Laxey  the  sun  stood  high,  and  the  dust  of  the 
roads  was  being  driven  in  their  faces.  It  was  long  past  noon  when 


42  THE   BONDMAN 

he  came  to  Douglas,  and  at  a  little  shop  by  the  harbor-bridge  he 
bought  a  pennyworth  of  barley  cake,  gave  half  to  Sunlocks,  put 
the  other  half  into  his  pocket,  and  pushed  on  with  longer  strides. 
The  twilight  was  deepening  when  he  reached  Castletown,  and  there 
he  inquired  for  the  house  of  the  Governor.  It  was  pointed  out  to 
him,  and  through  heavy  iron  gates,  up  a  winding  carriage-way  lined 
with  elms  and  bordered  with  daffodils,  he  made  toward  the  only 
door  he  saw. 

It  was  the  main  entrance  to  Government  House,  a  low  broad 
porch,  with  a  bench  on  either  side  and  a  cross-barred  door  of 
knotted*  oak.  Stephen  Orry  paused  before  it,  looked  nervously 
around,  and  then  knocked  with  his  knuckles.  He  had  walked  six 
and  twenty  miles,  carrying  the  child  all  the  way.  He  was  weary, 
footsore,  hungry,  and  covered  with  dust.  The  child  on  his  shoulder 
was  begrimed  and  dirty,  his  little  face  smeared  in  streaks,  his  wavy 
hair  loaded  and  unkempt.  A  footman  in  red  and  buff,  powdered, 
starched,  gartered,  and  dainty,  opened  the  door.  Stephen  Orry 
asked  for  the  Governor.  The  footman  looked  out  with  surprise 
at  the  bedraggled  man  with  the  child,  and  asked  who  he  was. 
Stephen  told  his  name.  The  footman  asked  where  he  came  from. 
Stephen  answered.  The  footman  asked  what  he  came  for.  Stephen 
did  not  reply.  Was  it  for  a  meal?  Stephen  shook  his  head.  Or 
money?  Stephen  said  no.  With  another  glance  of  surprise  the 
footman  shut  the  door,  saying  the  Governor  was  at  dinner. 

Stephen  Orry  lowered  the  little  one  from  his  shoulder,  sat  on 
the  bench  in  the  porch,  placed  the  child  on  his  knee,  and  gave  him 
the  remainder  of  the  barley  cake.  All  the  weary  journey  through 
he  had  been  patient  and  cheerful,  the  brave  little  man,  never  once 
crying  aloud  at  the  pains  of  his  long  ride,  never  once  whimpering 
at  the  dust  that  blinded  him,  or  the  heat  that  made  him  thirsty. 
Holding  on  at  his  father's  cap,  he  had  laughed  and  sung  even  with 
the  channels  still  wet  on  his  cheeks  where  the  big  drops  had  rolled 
from  his  eyes  to  his  chin. 

Little  Sunlocks  munched  at  his  barley  cake  in  silence,  and  in 
the  gathering  darkness  Stephen  watched  him  as  he  ate.  All  at 
once  a  silvery  peal  of  child's  laughter  came  from  within  the  house, 
and  little  Sunlocks  dropped  the  barley  cake  from  his  mouth  to 
listen.  Again  it  came ;  and  the  grimy  face  of  little  Sunlocks  light- 
ened to  a  smile,  and  that  of  Stephen  Orry  lowered  and  fell. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  live  in  a  house  like  this,  little  Sunlocks  ?" 

"Yes— with  my  father." 

Just  then  the  dark  door  opened  again,  and  the  footman,  with  a 
taper  in  his  hand,  came  out  to  light  the  lamp  in  the  porch. 


THE   BONDMAN  43 

"What?    Here  still?"  he  said. 

"I  am;  been  waiting  to  see  the  Governor,"  Stephen  Orry  an- 
swered. 

Then  the  footman  went  in,  and  told  the  Governor  that  a  big 
man  and  a  child  were  sitting  in  the  porch,  talking  some  foreign 
lingo  together,  and  refusing  to  go  away  without  seeing  His  Ex- 
cellency. 

"Bring  them  in,"  said  the  Governor. 

Adam  Fairbrother  was  at  the  dinner-table,  enveloped  in  to- 
bacco clouds.  His  wife,  Ruth,  had  drawn  her  chair  aside  that  she 
might  knit.  Stephen  Orry  entered  slowly  with  little  Sunlocks  by 
the  hand. 

"This  is  the  person,  your  Excellency,"  said  the  footman. 

"Come  in,  Stephen  Orry,"  said  the  Governor. 

Stephen  Orry's  face  softened  at  that  word  of  welcome.  The 
footman's  dropped  and  he  disappeared. 

Then  Stephen  told  his  errand.  "I  shall  come  to  have  give  you 
something,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  in  English. 

Adam's  wife  raised  her  eyes  and  glanced  over  him.  Adam  him- 
self laid  down  his  pipe  and  held  out  his  hand  toward  Sunlocks. 
But  Stephen  held  the  child  back  a  moment  and  spoke  again. 

"It's  all  I  shall  have  got  to  give,"  he  said. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Adam. 

"The  child,"  said  Stephen,  and  passed  little  Sunlocks  to  Adam's 
outstretched  hand. 

At  that  Adam's  wife  dropped  her  knitting  to  her  lap,  but 
Stephen,  seeing  nothing  of  the  amazement  written  in  her  face,  went 
on  in  his  broken  words  to  tell  them  all — of  his  wife's  life,  her  death, 
his  own  sore  temptation,  and  the  voice  out  of  heaven  that  had 
called  to  him.  And  then  with  a  moistened  eye  and  a  glance  at 
Sunlocks,  and  in  a  lowered  tone  as  if  fearing  the  child  might  hear, 
he  spoke  of  what  he  meant  to  do  now— of  how  he  would  go  back 
to  the  herrings,  and  maybe  to  sea,  or  perhaps  down  into  the  mines, 
but  never  again  to  Port-y-Vullin.  And,  because  a  lone  man  was 
no  company  for  a  child,  and  could  not  take  a  little  one  with  him 
if  he  would,  he  had  come  to  it  at  last  that  he  must  needs  part  with 
little  Sunlocks,  lending  him,  or  maybe  giving  him,  to  some  one  he 
could  trust. 

"And  so,"  he  said,  huskily,  "I  shall  say  to  me  often  and  often : 
'The  Governor  is  a  good  man  and  kind  to  me  long,  long  ago,  and 
I  shall  give  little  Sunlocks  to  him.' " 

He  had  dropped  his  head  into  his  breast  as  he  spoke,  and  being 
now  finished  he  stood  fumbling  his  scraggy  goatskin  cap. 


44  THE   BONDMAN 

Then  Adam's  wife,  who  had  listened  in  mute  surprise,  drew 
herself  up,  took  a  long  breath,  looked- first  at  Stephen,  then  at 
Adam,  then  back  at  Stephen,  and  said  in  a  bated  whisper: 

"Well !  Did  any  living  soul  ever  hear  the  like  in  this  island 
before?" 

Not  rightly  understanding  what  this  might  mean,  poor  Stephen 
looked  back  at  her,  in  his  weak,  dazed  way,  but  made  her  no 
answer. 

"Children  might  be  scarce,"  she  said,  and  gave  a  little  angry 
toss  of  her  head. 

Still  the  meaning  of  what  she  said  had  not  worked  its  way 
through  Stephen's  slow  wit,  and  he  mumbled  in  his  poor  blunder- 
ing fashion : 

"He  is  all  I  have,  ma'am." 

"Lord-a-massy,  man,"  she  cried,  sharply,  "but  we  might  have 
every  child  in  the  parish  at  your  price." 

Stephen's  fingers  now  clutched  at  his  cap,  his  parted  lips  quiv- 
ered, and  again  he  floundered  out,  stammering  like  an  idiot : 

"But  I  love  him,  ma'am,  more  nor  all  the  world." 

"Then  I'll  thank  you  to  keep  him,"  she  answered,  hotly;  and 
after  that  there  was  dead  silence  for  a  moment. 

In  all  Stephen's  reckoning  never  once  had  he  counted  on  this — 
that  after  he  had  brought  himself  to  that  sore  pass,  at  which 
he  could  part  with  Sunlocks  and  turn  his  back  on  him,  never  more 
to  be  cheered  by  his  sunny  face  and  merry  tongue,  never  again 
to  be  wakened  by  him  in  the  morning,  never  to  listen  for  his 
gentle  breathing  in  the  night,  never  to  feed  him  and  wash  him, 
never  to  carry  him  shoulder  high,  any  human  creature  could  say  no 
to  him  from  thought  of  the  little  food  he  would  eat  or  the  little 
trouble  he  would  ask. 

Stephen  stood  a  moment,  with  his  poor,  bewildered,  stupefied 
face  hung  down  and  the  great  lumps  surging  hot  in  his  throat,  and 
then,  without  a  word  more,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  toward  the 
child. 

But  all  this  time  Adam  had  looked  on  with  swimming  eyes, 
and  now  he  drew  little  Sunlocks  yet  closer  between  his  knees,  and 
said,  quietly: 

"Ruth,  we  are  going  to  keep  the  little  one.  Two  fagots  will 
burn  better  than  one,  and  this  sweet  boy  will  be  company  for  our 
little  Greeba." 

"Adam,"  she  cried,  "haven't  you  children  enough  of  your  own, 
but  you  must  needs  take  other  folks'  ?" 

"Ruth,"  he  answered,  "I  have  six  sons,  and  if  they  had  been 


THE   BONDMAN  45 

twelve,  perhaps,  I  should  have  been  better  pleased,  so  they  had  all 
been  as  strong  and  hearty;  and  I  have  one  daughter,  and  if  there 
had  been  two  it  would  have  suited  me  as  well." 

Now  the  rumor  of  Stephen  Orry's  former  marriage,  which  Liza 
had  so  zealously  set  afoot,  had^reached  Government  House  by  way 
of  Lague,  and  while  Stephen  had  spoken  Adam  had  remembered 
the  story,  and  thinking  of  it  he  had  smoothed  the  head  of  little 
Sunlocks  with  a  yet  tenderer  hand.  But  Adam's  wife,  recalling  it 
now,  said  warmly : 

"Maybe  you  think  it  wise  to  bring  up  your  daughter  with  the 
merry-begot  of  any  ragabash  that  comes  prowling  along  from  good- 
ness knows  where." 

"Ruth,"  said  Adam,  as  quietly  as  before,  "we  are  going  to  keep 
the  little  one,"  and  at  that  his  wife  rose  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

The  look  of  bewilderment  had  not  yet  been  driven  from  Stephen 
Orry's  face  by  the  expression  of  joy  that  had  followed  it,  and  now 
he  stood  glancing  from  Adam  to  the  door  and  from  the  door  to 
Adam,  as  much  as  to  say  that  if  his  coming  had  brought  strife 
he  was  ready  to  go.  But  the  Governor  waved  his  hand,  as  though 
following  his  thought  and  dismissing  it.  Then  lifting  the  child 
to  his  knee,  he  asked  his  name,  whereupon  the  little  man  himself 
answered  promptly  that  his  name  was  Sunlocks. 

"Michael,"  said  Stephen  Orry ;  "but  I  call  him  Sunlocks." 

"Michael  Sunlocks — a  good  name,  too.    And  what  is  his  age?" 

"Four  years." 

"Just  the  age  of  my  own  darling,"  said  the  Governor;  and 
setting  the  child  on  his  feet  he  rang  the  bell  and  said :  "Bring  little 
Greeba  here." 

A  minute  later  a  little  brown-haired  lassie  with  ruddy  cheeks 
and  laughing  lips  and  sparkling  brown  eyes  came  racing  into  the 
room.  She  was  in  her  nightgown,  ready  for  bed,  her  feet  were 
bare,  and  under  one  arm  she  carried  a  doll. 

"Come  here,  Greeba  veg,"  said  the  Governor,  and  he  brought 
the  children  face  to  face,  and  then  stood  aside  to  watch  them. 

They  regarded  each  other  for  a  moment  with  the  solemn  aloof- 
ness that  only  children  know,  twisting  and  curling  aside,  eying 
one  another  furtively,  neither  of  them  seeming  so  much  as  to  see 
the  other,  yet  neither  seeing  anything  or  anybody  else.  This  little 
freak  of  child  manners  ran  its  course,  and  then  Sunlocks,  never 
heeding  his  dusty  pinafore,  or  the  little  maiden's  white  nightgown, 
but  glancing  down  at  her  bare  feet,  and  seeming  to  remember  that 
when  his  own  were  shoeless  some  one  carried  him,  stepped  up  to 
her,  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  with  lordly,  masculine  superiority 


46  THE  BONDMAN 

of  strength  proceeded  to  lift  her  bodily  in  his  arms.  The  attempt 
was  a  disastrous  failure,  and  in  another  moment  the  two  were 
rolling  over  each  other  on  the  floor ;  a  result  that  provoked  the  little 
maiden's  direst  wrath  and  the  blank  astonishment  of  little  Sunlocks. 

But  before  the  tear-drop  of  vexation  was  yet  dry  on  Greeba's 
face,  or  the  silent  bewilderment  had  gone  from  the  face  of  Sun- 
locks,  she  was  holding  out  her  doll  in  a  sidelong  way  in  his  direc- 
tion, as  much  as  to  say  he  might  look  at  it  if  he  liked,  only  he  must 
not  think  that  she  was  asking  him;  and  he,  nothing  loth  for  her 
fierce  reception  of  his  gallant  tender,  was  devouring  the  strange 
sight  with  eyes  full  of  awe. 

Then  followed  some  short  inarticulate  chirps  and  the  doll  was 
passed  to  Sunlocks,  who  turned  the  strange  thing — such  as  eyes  of 
his  had  never  beheld — over  and  over  and  over,  while  the  little 
woman  brought  out  from  dark  corners  of  the  room,  and  from  curi- 
ous recesses  unknown  save  to  her  own  hands  and  knees,  a  slate 
with  a  pencil  and  sponge  tied  to  it  by  a  string,  a  picture-book 
whereof  the  binding  hung  loose,  some  bits  of  ribbon,  red  and  blue, 
and  finally  three  tiny  cups  and  saucers  with  all  the  accompanying 
wonder  of  cream  jug  and  teapot.  In  three  minutes  more  two  little 
bodies  were  sitting  on  their  haunches,  two  little  tongues  were  cack- 
ling and  gobbling,  the  room  was  rippling  over  with  a  merry  twitter, 
the  strange  serious  air  was  gone  from  the  little  faces,  the  little  man 
and  the  little  maid  were  far  away  already  in  the  little  world  of 
childhood,  and  all  the  universe  beside  was  gone,  and  lost,  and 
forgotten. 

Stephen  Orry  had  looked  down  from  his  great  height  at  the 
encounter  on  the  floor,  and  his  dull,  slow  eyes  had  filled,  for  in 
some  way  that  he  could  not  follow  there  had  come  to  him  at  that 
sweet  sight  the  same  deep  yearning  that  had  pained  him  in  the 
boat.  And  seeing  how  little  Sunlocks  was  rapt,  Stephen  struggled 
hard  with  himself  and  said,  turning  to  the  Governor: 

"Now's  the  time  for  me  to  slip  away." 

Then  he  left  the  room,  unnoticed  of  the  busy  people  on  the  floor. 

Two  hours  later,  after  little  Sunlocks,  having  first  missed  his 
father,  his  life's  friend  and  only  companion,  had  cried  a  little,  and 
soon  ceased  to  cry  out  of  joy  of  his  new  comradeship,  and  had 
then  nestled  down  his  sunny  head  on  the  pillow  where  little  Gree- 
ba's curly  poll  also  lay,  with  the  doll  between  him  and  her,  and 
some  marbles  in  his  hand  to  comfort  his  heart,  Stephen  Orry,  un- 
able to  drag  himself  away,  was  tramping  the  dark  roads  about  the 
house.  He  went  off  at  length,  and  was  seen  no  more  at  Castletown 
for  many  years  thereafter. 


THE   BONDMAN  47 

Now  this  adoption  of  little  Sunlocks  info  the  family  of  the 
Governor  was  an  incident  that  produced  many  effects,  and  the  first 
of  them  was  the  serious  estrangement  of  Adam  and  his  wife. 
Never  had  two  persons  of  temperaments  so  opposed  lived  so  long  in 
outward  harmony.  Her  face,  like  some  mountain  country,  re- 
vealed its  before  and  after.  Its  spring  must  have  been  keen  and 
eager,  its  summer  was  overcast,  and  its  winter  would  be  cold  and 
frozen.  She  was  not  a  Manxwoman,  but  came  of  a  family  of 
French  refugees,  settled  as  advocates  on  the  north  of  the  island. 
Always  vain  of  show,  she  had  married  in  her  early  womanhood, 
when  Adam  Fairbrother  was  newly  returned  from  Barbary,  and 
his  adventures  abroad  were  the  common  gossip  and  speculation. 
But  Adam  had  disappointed  her  ambition  at  the  outset  by  dropping 
into  the  ruts  of  a  homely  life.  Only  once  had  she  lifted  him  out 
of  them,  and  that  was  after  twenty  years,  when  the  whim  and 
wisdom  of  the  Duke  had  led  him  to  visit  Lague;  and  then  her 
impatience,  her  importunity,  her  fuss  and  flurry,  and  appeals  in 
the  name  of  their  children,  had  made  him  Governor.  Meantime, 
she  had  borne  him  six  sons  in  rapid  succession  during  the  first 
ten  years  of  marriage,  and  after  an  interval  of  ten  other  years 
she  had  borne  a  daughter.  Four-and-twenty  years  the  good  man 
had  lived  at  peace  with  her,  drained  of  his  serenity  by  her  rest- 
lessness, and  of  his  unselfishness  by  her  self-seeking.  With  a  wise 
contempt  of  trifles,  he  had  kept  peace  over  little  things,  and  the 
island  had  long  amused  itself  about  his  pliant  disposition,  but  now 
that  for  the  first  time  he  proved  unyielding,  the  island  said  he  was 
wrong.  To  adopt  a  child  against  the  wish  of  his  wife,  to  take  into 
his  family  the  waif  of  a  drunken  woman  and  an  idle  foreigner, 
was  an  act  of  stubborn  injustice  and  folly.  But  Adam  held  to  his 
purpose,  and  Michael  Sunlocks  remained  at  Government  House. 

A  year  passed,  and  Sunlocks  was  transformed.  No  one  would 
have  recognized  him.  The  day  his  father  brought  him  he  had  been 
pale  under  the  dust  that  covered  him ;  he  had  been  timid  and  had 
trembled,  and  his  eyes  had  looked  startled,  as  though  he  had  already 
been  beaten  and  cuffed  and  scolded.  A  child,  like  a  flower,  takes 
the  color  of  the  air  it  breathes,  and  Sunlocks  had  not  been  too 
young  to  feel  the  grimy  cold  of  the  atmosphere  in  which  he  had 
been  born.  But  now  he  had  opened  like  a  rose  to  the  sun,  and 
his  cheeks  were  ruddy  and  his  eyes  were  bright.  He  had  become 
plump  and  round  and  sturdy,  and  his  hair  had  curled  around  his 
head  and  grown  yet  warmer  of  hue,  like  the  plumes  of  a  bird  in 
the  love  season.  And,  like  a  bird,  he  chirruped  the  long  day 
through,  skipping  and  tripping  and  laughing  and  singing  all  over 


48  THE   BONDMAN 

the  house,  idolized  by  some,  beloved  by  many,  caressed  by  all,  even 
winning  upon  Mrs.  Fairbrother  herself,  who,  whatever  her  objec- 
tion to  his  presence,  had  not  yet  steeled  herself  against  his 
sweetness. 

Another  year  passed,  and  the  children  grew  together — Sunlocks 
and  Greeba,  boy  and  girl,  brother  and  sister — in  the  innocent  com- 
munion of  healthy  childhood,  with  their  little  whims,  their  little 
ways,  their  little  tiffs,  and  with  the  little  sorrows  that  overcast  ex- 
istence. And  Sunlocks  picked  up  his  English  words  as  fast  as  he 
picked  shells  on  the  beach,  gathering  them  on  his  tongue  as  he 
gathered  the  shells  into  his  pinafore,  dropping  them  and  picking 
them  up  again. 

Yet  another  year  went  by,  and  then  over  the  luminous  inno- 
cence of  the  children  there  crept  the  strange  trail  of  sex,  revealing 
already  their  little  differences  of  character,  and  showing  what  they 
were  to  be  in  days  to  come — the  little  maid,  quick,  urgent,  impul- 
sive, and  vain;  the  little  man,  quiet,  unselfish  and  patient,  but 
liable  to  outbursts  of  temper. 

A  fourth  year  passed,  and  then  the  little  people  were  parted. 
The  Duchess  came  from  London,  where  her  nights  had  no  repose 
and  her  days  no  freshness,  to  get  back  a  little  of  the  color  of  the 
sun  into  her  pallid  cheeks,  and  driving  one  day  from  Mount  Mur- 
ray to  Government  House  she  lit  on  Greeba  in  the  road  outside 
Castletown.  It  was  summer,  and  the  little  maid  of  eight,  bright  as 
the  sunlight  that  glistened  on  her  head,  her  cheeks  all  pink  and 
white,  her  eyes  sparkling  under  her  dark  lashes,  her  brown  hair 
rippling  behind  her,  her  frock  tucked  up  in  fishwife  fashion,  her  legs 
bare,  and  her  white  linen  sunbonnet  swinging  in  her  hand,  was 
chasing  a  butterfly  amid  the  yellow-tipped  gorse  that  grew  by  the 
roadside.  That  vision  of  beauty  and  health  awakened  a  memory 
of  less  charm  and  freshness.  The  Duchess  remembered  a  little 
maiden  of  her  own  who  was  also  eight  years  old,  dainty  and  pretty, 
but  pale  and  sickly,  peaked  up  in  a  chill  stone  house  in  London, 
playing  alone  with  bows  and  ribbons,  talking  to  herself,  and 
having  no  companion  except  a  fidgety  French  governess,  who  was 
wrinkled  and  had  lost  some  of  her  teeth. 

A  few  days  later  the  Duchess  came  again  to  Government  House, 
bought  a  gay  new  hat  for  Greeba,  and  proposed  that  the  little  maid 
should  go  home  with  her  as  playfellow  for  her  only  child.  Adam 
promptly  said  "No"  to  her  proposal,  with  what  emphasis  his  cour- 
tesy would  permit,  urging  that  Greeba,  being  so  much  younger  than 
her  brothers,  was  like  an  only  child  in  the  family,  and  that  she  was 
in  any  case  an  only  daughter.  But  Adam's  wife,  thinking  she  saw 


THE   BONDMAN  49 

her  opportunity,  found  many  reasons  why  Greeba  should  be  al- 
lowed to  go.  For  would  it  be  right  to  cross  the  wish  of  so  great 
a  lady? — and  one,  too,  who  was  in  a  sense  their  mistress  also.  And 
then  who  could  say  what  the  Duchess  might  do  for  the  child  some 
day? — and  in  any  event  wasn't  it  a  chance  for  which  anybody 
else  in  the  island  would  give  both  his  ears  to  have  his  daughter 
brought  up  in  London,  and  at  the  great  house  of  the  Duke  of 
Athol? 

The  end  of  it  was  that  Adam  yielded  to  his  wife  now,  as  he 
had  often  yielded  before.  "But  I'll  sadly  miss  my  little  lassie,"  he 
said,  "and  I  much  misdoubt  but  I'll  repent  me  of  letting  her  go." 

Yet,  while  Adam  shook  his  head  and  looked  troubled,  the  little 
maid  herself  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight 

"And  you  would  really  like  to  go  to  London,  Greeba  ven  ?" 

"But  should  I  see  the  carriages,  and  the  ladies  on  horseback, 
and  the  shops,  and  the  little  girls  in  velvet — should  I,  eh?" 

"Maybe  so,  my  ven,  maybe  so." 

"Oh !" 

The  little  maid  gave  one  glance  at  the  infinite  splendor  of  her 
new  bow  and  feather,  and  her  dark  eyes  sparkled,  while  the  eyes 
of  her  father  filled. 

"But  not  Michael  Sunlocks,  you  know,  Greeba  ven;  no,  nor 
mother,  nor  father." 

At  that  word  there  was  a  pretty  downward  curve  of  the  little 
lip;  but  life  had  no  real  sorrow  for  one  with  such  a  hat  and  such 
a  prospect,  and  the  next  instant  the  bright  eyes  leaped  again  to 
the  leaping  heart. 

"Then  run  away,  Greeba  ven — run." 

The  little  maiden  took  her  father  at  his  word,  though  it  was 
but  sadly  spoken,  and  bounded  off  in  chase  of  Michael  Sunlocks, 
that  she  might  tell  him  the  great  news.  She  found  him  by  the 
old  wooden  bridge  of  the  Silver  Burn  near  the  Malew  Church. 

Michael  Sunlocks  had  lately  struck  up  a  fast  friendship  with 
the  carrier,  old  crazy  Chaise  A'Killey,  who  sometimes  lent  him  his 
donkey  for  a  ride.  Bareheaded,  barefooted,  with  breeches  rolled 
up  above  the  knees,  his  shoes  and  stockings  swung  about  his  neck, 
and  his  wavy  yellow  hair  rough  and  tangled,  Michael  Sunlocks  was 
now  seated  bareback  on  this  donkey,  tugging  the  rope  that  served 
it  for  curb  and  snaffle,  and  persuading  it,  by  help  of  a  blackthorn 
stick,  to  cross  the  river  to  the  meadow  opposite.  And  it  was  just 
when  the  donkey,  a  creature  of  becoming  meekness  and  most  ven- 
erable age,  was  reflecting  on  these  arguments,  and  contemplating 
the  water  at  his  shoes  with  a  pensive  eye,  that  Greeba,  radiant  in 
3  Vol.  II 


5o  THE   BONDMAN 

the  happiness  of  her  marvelous  hat,  came  skipping  on  to  the 
bridge. 

In  a  moment  she  blurted  out  her  news  between  many  gusts  of 
breath,  and  Michael  Sunlocks,  pausing  from  his  labors,  sat  on  his 
docile  beast  and  looked  up  at  her  with  great  wonder  in  his  wide 
blue  eyes. 

"And  I  shall  see  the  carriages,  and  the  ladies  on  horseback,  and 
the  ships,  and  the  waxworks,  and  the  wild  beasts." 

The  eyes  of  Sunlocks  grew  hazy  and  wet,  but  the  little  maiden 
rattled  on,  cocking  her  eye  down  as  she  spoke  at  her  reflection  in 
the  smooth  river,  for  it  took  a  world  of  glances  to  grow  familiar 
with  the  marvel  that  sat  on  her  head. 

"And  I  shall  wear  velvet  frocks,  and  have  new  hats  often  and 
lots  of  goodies  and  things;  and — and  didn't  I  always  say  a  good 
fairy  would  come  for  me*some  day?'" 

"What  are  you  talking  of,  you  silly?"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"I'm  not  a  silly,  and  I'm  going  away,  and  you  are  not ;  and  I'll 
have  girls  to  play  with  now,  not  boys — there !" 

Michael  Sunlocks  could  bear  no  more.  His  eyes  overflowed, 
but  his  cheeks  reddened,  and  he  said: 

"What  do  I  care,  you  stupid?  You  can  go  if  you  like,"  and  then 
down  came  his  stick  with  a  sounding  thwack  on  the  donkey's  flank. 

Now  startled  out  of  all  composure  by  such  sudden  and  sum- 
mary address,  the  beast  threw  up  his  hinder  legs  and  ducked  down 
his  head,  and  tumbled  his  rider  into  the  water.  Michael  Sunlocks 
scrambled  to  his  feet,  all  dripping  wet,  but  with  eyes  aflame  and 
his  little  lips  set  hard,  and  then  laid  hold  of  the  rope  bridle  and 
tugged  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  stick  in  the  other  he  cud- 
geled the  donkey  until  he  had  forced  it  to  cross  the  river. 

While  this  tough  work  was  going  forward,  Greeba,  who  had 
shrieked  at  Michael's  fall,  stood  trembling  with  clasped  hands 
on  the  bridge,  and,  when  all  was  over,  the  little  man  turned  to  her 
with  high  disdain,  and  said,  after  a  mighty  toss  of  his  glistening 
wet  head: 

"Did  you  think  I  was  drowned,  you  silly?  Why  don't  you 
go,  if  you're  going?'" 

Not  all  the  splendor  of  bow  and  feather  could  help  the  little 
maiden  to  withstand  indifference  like  this,  so  her  lip  fell,  and  she 
said: 

"Well,  you  needn't  say  so,  if  you  are  glad  I'm  going." 

And  Sunlocks  answered:  "Who  says  I'm  glad?  Not  that  I 
say  I'm  not,  neither,"  he  added  quickly,  leaping  astride  his  beast 
agaia 


THE   BONDMAN  51 

Whereupon  Greeba  said :  "If  you  had  been  going  away  /  should 
have  cried,"  and  then,  to  save  herself  from  bursting  out  in  his 
very  face,  she  turned  about  quickly  and  fled. 

"But  I'm  not  such  a  silly,  I'm  not,"  Michael  Sunlocks  shouted 
after  her,  and  down  came  another  thwack  on  the  donkey,  and  away 
he  sped  across  the  meadow.  But  before  he  had  ridden  far  he 
drew  rein  and  twisted  about,  and  now  his  blue  eyes  were  swim- 
ming once  more. 

"Greeba,"  he  called,  and  his  little  voice  broke,  but  no  answer 
came  back  to  him. 

"Greeba,"  he  called  again,  more  loudly,  but  Greeba  did  not  stop. 

"Greeba !"  he  shouted  with  all  his  strength.  "Greeba  I 
Greeba !" 

But  the  little  maid  had  gone,  and  there  was  no  response.  The 
bees  were  humming  in  the  gold  of  the  gorse,  and  the  fireflies  were 
buzzing  about  the  donkey's  ears,  while  the  mountains  were  fading 
away  into  a  dim  wet  haze. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  carriage  of  the  Duchess  drove  out 
through  the  iron  gates  of  Government  House,  and  the  little  maiden 
seated  in  it  by  the  side  of  the  stately  lady,  was  crying  in  a  voice 
of  childlike  grief: 

"Sunlocks!   Sunlocks!  Little   Sunlocks!" 

The  advantage  which  the  Governor's  wife  proposed  to  herself 
in  parting  with  her  daughter  she  never  gained,  and  one  of  the 
secret  ends  of  her  life  was  thereby  not  only  disappointed  but  de- 
feated; for  while  the  Duchess  did  nothing  for  Greeba,  the  girl's 
absence  from  home  led  Adam  to  do  the  more  for  Michael  Sunlocks. 
Deprived  of  his  immediate  object  of  affection,  his  own  little  maiden, 
Adam  lavished  his  love  on  the  stranger  whom  chance  had  brought 
to  his  door;  being  first  prompted  thereto  by  the  thought,  which 
came  only  when  it  was  too  late,  that  in  sending  Greeba  away  to 
be  company  to  some  other  child  he  had  left  poor  little  Sunlocks 
at  home  to  be  sole  company  to  himself. 

But  Michael  Sunlocks  soon  won  for  himself  the  caresses  that 
were  once  due  merely  to  pity  of  his  loneliness,  and  Adam's  heart 
went  out  to  him  with  the  strong  affection  of  a  father.  He  throve, 
he  grew — a  tall,  lithe,  round-limbed  lad,  with  a  smack  of  the  man 
in  his  speech  and  ways,  and  all  the  strong  beauty  of  a  vigorous 
woman  in  his  face.  Year  followed  year,  his  school  days  came  and 
went,  he  became  more  and  yet  more  the  Governor's  quick  right 
hand,  his  pen  and  his  memory,  even  his  judgment,  and  the  staff 
he  leaned  on.  It  was  "Michael  Sunlocks"  here,  and  "Michael  Sun- 
locks"  there,  and  "Michael  Sunlocks  will  see  to  that,"  and  "You 


52  THE   BONDMAN 

may  safely  leave  it  to  Michael  Sunlocks";  and  meantime  the 
comely  and  winsome  lad,  with  man's  sturdy  independence  of  spirit, 
but  a  woman's  yearning  for  love,  having  long  found  where  this  ac- 
count lay  in  the  house  of  Governor  Fairbrother,  clung  to  that  good 
man  with  more  than  the  affection,  because  less  than  the  confidence, 
of  a  son,  and  like  a  son  he  stood  to  him. 

Now,  for  one  who  found  this  relation  sweet  and  beautiful,  there 
were  many  who  found  it  false  and  unjust,  implying  an  unnatural 
preference  of  a  father  for  a  stranger  before  his  own  children ;  and 
foremost  among  those  who  took  this  unfavorable  view  were  Mrs. 
Fairbrother  and  her  sons.  She  blamed  her  husband,  and  they 
blamed  Michael  Sunlocks. 

The  six  sons  of  Adam  Fairbrother  had  grown  into  six  rude 
men,  all  big,  lusty  fellows,  rough  and  hungry,  seared  and  scarred 
like  the  land  they  lived  on,  but  differing  much  at  many  points. 
Asher,  the  eldest,  three-and-thirty  when  Sunlocks  was  fifteen,  was 
fair,  with  gray  eyes,  flabby  face,  and  no  chin  to  speak  of,  good- 
hearted,  but  unstable  as  water.  He  was  for  letting  the  old  man  and 
the  lad  alone.  "Aisy,  man,  aisy,  what's  the  odds  ?"  he  would  say, 
in  his  drawling  way  of  speaking.  But  Ross,  the  second  son,  and 
Stean,  the  third,  both  cruel  and  hot-blooded  men,  reproached  Asher 
with  not  objecting  from  the  first,  for  "Och,"  they  would  say,  "one 
of  these  fine  days  the  ship  will  be  wrecked  and  scuttled  before  yer 
very  eyes,  and  not  a  pound  of  cargo  left  at  her;  and  all  along  of 
that  cursed  young  imp  that's  after  sniffin'  and  sniffin'  abaft  of  the 
ould  man," — a  figure  of  speech  which  meant  that  Adam  would  will 
his  belongings  to  Michael  Sunlocks.  And  at  that  conjecture, 
Thurstan.  the  fourth  son,  a  black-bearded  fellow  in  top  boots, 
always  red-eyed  with  much  drinking,  but  strong  of  will  and  the 
ruler  of  his  brethren,  would  say:  "Aw,  well,  let  the  little  beach- 
comber keep  his  weather  eye  liftin' " ;  and  Jacob,  the  fifth  son, 
sandy  as  a  fox,  and  as  sly  and  watchful,  and  John,  the  youngest, 
known  as  Gentleman  Johnny,  out  of  tribute  to  his  love  of  dress, 
would  shake  their  heads  together,  and  hint  that  they  would  yet  find 
a  way  to  cook  the  goose  of  any  smooth-faced  hypocrite  shamming 
Abraham. 

Many  a  device  they  tried  to  get  Michael  Sunlocks  turned  away. 
They  brought  bad  stories  of  his  father,  Stephen  Orry,  now  a  name 
of  terror  to  good  people  from  north  to  south  of  the  island,  a  secret 
trader  running  between  the  revenue  cutters  in  the  ports  and  the 
smugglers  outside,  perhaps  a  wrecker  haunting  the  rough  channels 
of  the  Calf,  an  outlaw  growing  rich  by  crime,  and,  maybe,  by 
blood.  The  evil  rumors  made  no  impression  on  old  Adam,  but  they 


THE   BONDMAN  53 

produced  a  powerful  effect  where  no  effect  had  been  expected.  Bit 
by  bit,  as  his  heart  went  out  to  the  Governor,  there  grew  upon 
Michael  Sunlocks  a  deep  loathing  of  the  very  name  and  thought 
of  his  father.  The  memory  of  his  father  was  now  a  thing  of  the 
mind,  not  the  affections;  and  the  chain  of  the  two  emotions,  love 
for  his  foster  father  and  dread  of  his  natural  one,  slowly  but  surely 
tightened  about  him,  so  that  his  strongest  hope  was  that  he  might 
never  again  set  eyes  on  Stephen  Orry.  By  this  weakness  he  fell 
at  length  into  the  hands  of  the  six  Fairbrothers,  and  led  the  way 
to  a  total  rupture  of  old  Adam's  family. 

One  day  when  Michael  Sunlocks  was  eighteen  years  old  a  man 
came  to  him  from  Kirk  Maughold  with  an  air  of  wondrous  mys- 
tery, ft  was  Nary  Crowe,  the  innkeeper,  now  bald,  bottled-nosed, 
and  in  a  bad  state  of  preservation.  His  story,  intended  for 
Michael's  ear  alone,  was  that  Stephen  Orry,  flying  from  the  officers 
of  the  revenue  cutters,  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  island  for- 
ever, and  must  see  his  son  before  going.  If  the  son  would  not  go 
to  the  father,  then  the  father  must  come  to  the  son.  The  meeting- 
place  proposed  was  a  schooner  lying  outside  the  Calf  Sound,  and 
the  hour  midnight  of  the  day  following. 

It  was  as  base  a  plot  as  the  heart  of  an  enemy  ever  concocted, 
for  the  schooner  was  a  smuggler,  and  the  men  of  the  revenue  cutter 
were  in  hiding  under  the  Black  Head  to  watch  her  movements. 
The  lad,  in  fear  of  his  father,  fell  into  the  trap,  and  was  taken 
prisoner  on  suspicion  in  a  gig  making  for  the  ship.  He  confessed 
all  to  the  Governor,  and  Nary  Crowe  was  arrested.  To  save  his 
own  carcass  Nary  gave  up  his  employers.  They  were  Ross  and 
Stean  Fairbrother,  and  Ross  and  Stean  being  questioned  pointed  to 
their  brothers  Jacob  and  Gentleman  Johnny  as  the  instigators  of 
the  scheme. 

When  the  revelation  was  complete,  and  the  Governor  saw  that 
all  but  his  whole  family  was  implicated,  and  that  the  stain  on  his 
house  was  so  black  that  the  island  would  ever  remember  it  against 
him,  his  placid  spirit  forsook  him  and  his  wrath  knew  no  bounds. 
But  the  evil  was  not  ended  there,  for  Mrs.  Fairbrother  took  sides 
with  her  sons,  and  straightway  vowed  to  live  no  longer  under  the 
same  roof  with  an  unnatural  father,  who  found- water  thicker  than 
blood. 

At  that  Adam  was  shaken  to  his  depths.  The  taunt  passed  him 
by,  but  the  threat  touched  him  sorely. 

"It  would  be  but  a  poor  business,"  he  said,  "to  part  now  after 
so  many  years  of  life  together,  with  seven  children  that  should 
be  as  bonds  between  us,  in  our  age  and  looking  to  a  longer  parting." 


54 


THE   BONDMAN 


But  Mrs.  Fairbrother  was  resolved  to  go  with  her  sons,  and 
never  again  to  darken  her  husband's  doors. 

"You  have  been  a  true  wife  to  me  and  led  a  good  life,"  said 
Adam,  "and  have  holpen  me  through  many  troubles,  and  we  have 
had  cheerful  hours  together  despite  some  crosses." 

But  Mrs.  Fairbrother  was  not  to  be  pacified. 

"Then  let  us  not  part  in  anger,"  said  Adam,  "and  though 
I  will  not  do  your  bidding,  and  send  away  the  lad — no,  nor  let 
him  go  of  himself,  now  that  for  sake  of  peace  he  asks  it — yet 
to  show  you  that  I  mean  no  wrong  by  my  own  flesh  and  blood, 
this  is  what  I  will  do:  I  have  my  few  hundreds  for  my  office, 
but  all  I  hold  that  I  can  call  my  own  is  Lague.  Take  it — it 
shall  be  yours  for  your  lifetime,  and  our  sons'  and  their  sister's 
after  you." 

At  these  terms  the  bad  bargain  was  concluded,  and  Mrs.  Fair- 
brother  went  away  to  Lague,  leaving  Adam  with  Michael  Sunlocks, 
at  Government  House. 

And  the  old  man,  being  now  alone  with  the  lad,  though  his 
heart  never  wavered  or  rued  the  price  he  had  paid  for  him,  often 
turned  yearningly  toward  thoughts  of  his  daughter  Greeba,  so 
that  at  length  he  said,  speaking  of  her  as  the  child  he  had  parted 
from :  "I  can  live  no  longer  without  my  little  lass,  and  will  go  and 
fetch  her." 

Then  he  wrote  to  the  Duchess  at  her  house  in  London,  and  a 
few  days  afterward  he  followed  his  letter. 

He  had  been  a  week  gone  when  Michael  Sunlocks,  having 
now  the  Governor's  routine  work  to  do,  was  sent  for  out  of  the 
north  of  the  island  to  see  to  the  light  on  the  Point  of  Ayre,  where 
there  was  then  no  lighthouse,  but  only  a  flare  stuck  out  from  a 
pole  at  the  end  of  a  sandstone  jetty,  a  poor  proxy,  involving  much 
risk  to  ships.  Two  days  he  was  away,  and  returning  home  he 
slept  a  night  at  Douglas,  rising  at  sunrise  to  make  the  last  stage 
of  his  journey  to  Castletown.  He  was  riding  Goldie,  the  Gov- 
ernor's little  roan;  the  season  was  spring,  and  the  morning,  fresh 
from  its  long  draft  of  dew,  was  sweet  and  beautiful.  But  Michael 
Sunlocks  rode  heavily  along,  for  he  was  troubled  by  many  mis- 
givings. He  was  asking  himself  for  the  hundredth  time  whether 
it  was  right  of  him,  and  a  true  man's  part,  to  suffer  himself  to 
stand  between  Adam  Fairbrother  and  his  family.  The  sad  breach 
being  made,  all  that  he  could  do  to  heal  it  was  to  take  himself  away, 
whether  Adam  favored  that  course  or  not.  And  he  had  concluded 
that,  painful  as  the  remedy  would  be,  yet  he  must  needs  take  it, 
and  that  very  speedily,  when  he  came  up  to  the  gate  of  Government 


THE   BONDMAN  55 

House,  and  turned  Goldie  down  the  path  to  the  left  that  led  to  the 
stables. 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  over  the  lowing  of  the  cattle  in  the 
byres,  and  the  steady  munching  of  the  sheep  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hedge,  and  through  the  smell  of  the  early  grass  there  came 
to  him  the  sweetest  sounds  he  had  ever  heard,  and  some  of  the 
queerest  and  craziest.  Without  knowing  what  he  did,  or  why  he 
did  it,  but  taking  himself  at  his  first  impulse,  he  drew  rein,  and 
Goldie  came  to  a  stand  on  the  mossgrown  pathway.  Then  he 
knew  that  two  were  talking  together  a  little  in  front  of  him,  but 
partly  hidden  by  a  turn  of  the  path  and  the  thick  trammon  that 
bordered  it.  Rising  in  his  stirrups  he  could  see  one  of  them,  and 
it  was  his  old  friend,  Chaise  A'Killey,  the  carrier,  a  shambling 
figure  in  a  guernsey  and  blue  seaman's  cap,  with  tousled  hair  and 
a  simple  vacant  face,  and  lagging  lower  lip,  but  eyes  of  a  strange 
brightness. 

And  "Aw,  yes,"  Chaise  was  saying,  "he's  a  big  lump  of  a  boy 
grown,  and  no  pride  at  all,  at  all,  and  a  fine  English  tongue  at 
him,  and  clever  extraordinary.  Him  and  me's  same  as  brothers, 
and  he  was  mortal  fond  to  ride  my  ould  donkey  when  he  was 
a  slip  of  a  lad.  Aw,  yes,  him  and  me's  middlin'  well  acquent." 

Then  some  linnets  that  were  hiding  in  the  trammon  began  to 
twitter,  and  what  was  said  next  Michael  Sunlocks  did  not  catch, 
but  only  heard  the  voice  that  answered  old  Chaise,  and  that  seemed 
to  make  the  music  of  the  birds  sound  harsh. 

"What  like  is  he?'  Is  it  like  it  is?"  old  Chaise  said  again. 
"Aw,  straight  as  the  backbone  of  a  herrin'  and  tall  and  strong; 
and  as  for  a  face,  maybe  there's  not  a  man  in  the  island  to  hold  a 
candle  to  him.  Och,  no,  nor  a  woman  neither — saving  yourself, 
maybe.  And  aw,  now,  the  sweet  and  tidy  ye're  looking  this  morn- 
ing, anyway :  as  fresh  as  the  dewdrop,  my  chree." 

Goldie  grew  restless,  began  to  paw  the  path,  and  twist  his  round 
flanks  into  the  leaves  of  the  trammon,  and  at  the  next  instant 
Michael  Sunlocks  was  aware  that  there  was  a  flutter  in  front  of 
him,  and  a  soft  tread  on  the  silent  moss,  and  before  he  could  catch 
back  the  lost  consciousness  of  that  moment,  a  light  and  slender 
figure  shot  out  with  a  rhythm  of  gentle  movement,  and  stood  in  all 
its  grace  and  lovely  sweetness  two  paces  beyond  the  head  of  his 
horse. 

"Greeba !"  thought  Michael  Sunlocks ;  and  sure  enough  it  was 
she,  in  the  first  bloom  of  her  womanhood,  with  gleams  of  her 
child  face  haunting  her  still  and  making  her  woman's  face 
luminous,  with  the  dark  eyes  softened  and  the  dimpled  cheeks 


56  THE   BONDMAN 

smoothed  out.  She  was  bareheaded,  and  the  dark  fall  of  her  hair 
was  broken  over  her  ears  by  eddies  of  wavy  curls.  Her  dress  was 
very  light  and  loose,  and  it  left  the  proud  lift  of  her  throat  bare, 
as  well  as  the  tower  of  her  round  neck,  and  a  hint  of  the  full  swell 
of  her  bosom. 

In  a  moment  Michael  Sunlocks  dropped  from  the  saddle  and 
held  out  his  hand  to  Greeba,  afraid  to  look  into  her  face  as  yet, 
and  she  put  out  her  hand  to  him  and  blushed :  both  frightened  more 
than  glad.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  never  a  word  would  come,  and 
he  felt  his  cheeks  burn  red.  But  her  eyes  were  shy  of  his,  and 
nothing  she  saw  but  the  shadow  of  Michael's  tall  form  above  her 
and  a  glint  of  the  uncovered  shower  of  fair  hair  that  had  made  him 
Sunlocks.  She  turned  her  eyes  aside  a  moment,  then  quickly 
recovered  herself  and  laughed  a  little,  partly  to  hide  her  own  con- 
fusion and  partly  in  joy  at  the  sight  of  his,  and  all  this  time  he 
held  her  hand,  arrested  by  a  sudden  gladness,  such  as  comes  with 
the  first  sunshine  of  spring  and  the  scent  of  the  year's  first  violet. 

There  was  then  the  harsh  scrape  on  the  path  of  old  Chaise 
A'Killey's  heavy  feet  going  off,  and,  the  spell  being  broken,  Greeba 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

"You  were  glad  when  I  went  away — are  you  sorry  that  I  have 
come  back  again?" 

But  his  breath  was  gone  and  he  could  not  answer,  so  he  only 
laughed,  and  pulled  the  reins  of  the  horse  over  its  head  and  walked 
before  it  by  Greeba's  side  as  she  turned  toward  the  stable.  In  the 
cow-house  the  kine  were  lowing,  over  the  half-door  a  calf  held  out 
his  red  and  white  head  and  munched  and  munched,  on  the  wall 
a  peacock  was  strutting,  and  across  the  paved  yard  the  two  walked 
together,  Greeba  and  Michael  Sunlocks,  softly,  without  words,  with 
quick  glances  and  quicker  blushes. 

Adam  Fairbrother  saw  them  from  a  window  of  the  house,  and 
he  said  to  himself :  "Now  God  grant  that  this  may  be  the  end  of  all 
partings*  between  them  and  me."  That  chanced  to  be  the  day 
before  Good  Friday,  and  it  was  only  three  days  afterward  that 
Adam  sent  for  Michael  Sunlocks  to  see  him  in  his  room. 

Sunlocks  obeyed,  and  found  a  strange  man  with  the  Governor. 
The  stranger  was  of  more  than  middle  age,  rough  of  dress,  bearded, 
tanned,  of  long  flaxen  hair,  an  ungainly  but  colossal  creature. 
When  they  came  face  to  face,  the  face  of  Michael  Sunlocks  fell, 
and  that  of  the  man  lightened  visibly. 

"This  is  your  son,  Stephen  Orry,"  said  old  Adam,  in  a  voice 
that  trembled  and  broke.  "And  this  is  your  father,  Michael  Sun- 
locks." 


THE   BONDMAN  57 

Then  Stephen  Orry,  with  a  depth  of  languor  in  his  slow  gray 
eyes,  made  one  step  toward  Michael  Sunlocks,  and  half  opened 
his  arms  as  if  to  embrace  him.  But  a  pitiful  look  of  shame  crossed 
his  face  at  that  moment,  and  his  arms  fell  again.  At  the  same 
instant  Michael  Sunlocks,  growing  very  pale  and  dizzy,  drew 
slightly  back,  and  they  stood  apart,  with  Adam  between  them. 

"He  has  come  for  you  to  go  away  into  his  own  country,"  Adam 
said,  falteringly. 

It  was  Easter  Day,  nineteen  years  after  Stephen  Orry  had  fled 
from  Iceland. 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE    VOW    OF    STEPHEN    ORRY 

STEPHEN  ORRY'S  story  was  soon  told.  He  desired  that  his  son, 
being  now  of  an  age  that  suited  it,  should  go  to  the  Latin  school 
at  Reykjavik,  to  study  there  under  old  Bishop  Petersen,  a  good 
man  whom  all  Icelanders  venerated,  and  he  himself  had  known 
from  his  childhood  up.  He  could  bear  the  expense  of  it,  and  say- 
ing so  he  hung  his  head  a  little.  An  Irish  brig,  hailing  from  Bel- 
fast, and  bound  for  Reykjavik,  was  to  put  in  at  Ramsey  on  the 
Saturday  following.  By  that  brig  he  wished  his  son  to  sail.  He 
should  be  back  at  the  little  house  in  Port-y-Vullin  between  this  and 
then,  and  he  desired  to  see  his  son  there,  having  something  of  con- 
sequence to  say  to  him.  That  was  all.  Fumbling  his  cap,  the 
great  creature  shambled  out,  and  was  gone  before  the  others  were 
aware. 

Then  Michael  Sunlocks  declared  stoutly  that  come  what  might 
he  would  not  go.  Why  should  he?  Who  was  this  man  that  he 
should  command  his  obedience?  His  father?  Then  what,  as  a 
father,  had  he  done  for  him?  Abandoned  him  to  the  charity  of 
others.  What  was  he  ?  One  whom  he  had  thought  of  with  shame, 
hoping  never  to  set  eyes  on  his  face.  And  now,  this  man,  this 
father,  this  thing  of  shame,  would  have  him  sacrifice  all  that  was 
near  and  dear  to  him,  and  leave  behind  the  only  one  who  had  been, 
indeed,  his  father,  and  the  only  place  that  had  been,  in  truth,  his 
home.  But  no,  that  base  thing  he  should  not  do.  And,  saying  this, 
Michael  Sunlocks  tossed  his  head  proudly,  though  there  was  a 
great  gulp  in  his  throat  and  his  shrill  voice  had  risen  to  a  cry. 

And  to  all  this  rush  of  protest  old  Adam,  who  had  first  stared 
out  at  the  window  with  a  look  of  sheer  bewilderment,  and  then 
sat  before  the  fire  to  smoke,  trying  to  smile  though  his  mouth  would 


S8  THE   BONDMAN 

not  bend,  and  to  say  something  more  though  there  seemed  nothing 
to  say,  answered  only  in  a  thick  under-breath :  "He  is  your  father, 
my  lad;  he  is  your  father." 

Hearing  this  again  and  again  repeated,  even  after  he  had  fenced 
it  with  many  answers,  Michael  Sunlocks  suddenly  bethought  him- 
self of  all  that  had  so  lately  occurred,  and  the  idea  came  to  him  in 
the  whirl  of  his  stunned  senses  that  perhaps  the  Governor  wished 
him  to  go,  now  that  they  could  part  without  offense  or  reproach  on 
either  side.  At  that  bad  thought  his  face  fell,  and  though  little 
given  to  woman's  ways  he  had  almost  flung  himself  at  old  Adam's 
feet  to  pray  of  him  not  to  send  him  away  whatever  happened, 
when  all  at  once  he  remembered  his  vow  of  the  morning.  What 
had  come  over  him  since  he  made  that  vow,  that  he  was  trying 
to  draw  back  now?  He  thought  of  Greeba,  of  the  Governor,  and 
again  of  Greeba.  Had  the  coming  of  Greeba  altered  all?  Was 
it  because  Greeba  was  back  home  that  he  wished  to  stay?  Was 
it  for  that  the  Governor  wished  him  to  go,  needing  him  now  no 
more?  He  did  not  know,  he  could  not  think;  only  the  hot  flames 
rose  to  his  cheeks  and  the  hot  tears  to  his  eyes,  and  he  tossed  his 
head  again  mighty  proudly,  and  said  as  stoutly  as  ever:  "Very 
well — very  well — I'll  go — since  you  wish  it." 

Now  old  Adam  saw  but  too  plainly  what  mad  strife  was  in  the 
lad's  heart  to  be  wroth  with  him  for  all  the  ingratitude  of  his 
thought,  so,  his  wrinkled  face  working  hard  with  many  passions — 
sorrow  and  tenderness,  yearning  for  the  lad  and  desire  to  keep 
him,  pity  for  the  father  robbed  of  the  love  of  his  son,  who  felt  an 
open  shame  of  him — the  good  man  twisted  about  from  the  fire  and 
said:  "Listen,  and  you  shall  hear  what  your  father  has  done 
for  you." 

And  then,  with  a  brave  show  of  composure,  though  many  a  time 
his  old  face  twitched  and  his  voice  faltered,  and  under  his  bleared 
spectacles  his  eyes  blinked,  he  told  Michael  Sunlocks  the  story  of 
his  infancy — how  his  father,  a  rude  man,  little  used  to  ways  of  ten- 
derness, had  nursed  him  when  his  mother,  being  drunken  and  with- 
out natural  feelings,  had  neglected  him;  how  his  father  had  tried 
to  carry  him  away  and  failed  for  want  of  the  license  allowing  them 
to  go;  how  at  length,  in  dread  of  what  might  come  to  the  child, 
yet  loving  him  fondly,  he  had  concluded  to  kill  him,  and  had  taken 
him  out  to  sea  in  the  boat  to  do  it,  but  could  not  compass  it  from 
terror  of  the  voice  that  seemed  to  speak  within  him,  and  from  pity 
of  the  child's  own  artless  prattle;  and,  last  of  all,  how  his  father 
had  brought  him  there  to  that  house,  not  abandoning  him  to  the 
charity  of  others,  but  yielding  him  up  reluctantly,  and  as  one  who 


THE   BONDMAN  59 

gave  away  in  solemn  trust  the  sole  thing  he  held  dear  in  all  the 
world. 

And  pleading  in  this  way  for  Stephen  Orry,  poor  old  Adam 
was  tearing  at  his  own  heart  wofully,  little  wishing  that  his  words 
would  prevail,  yet  urging  them  the  more  for  the  secret  hope  that, 
in  spite  of  all,  Michael  Sunlocks,  like  the  brave  lad  he  was,  would 
after  all  refuse  to  go.  But  Michael,  who  had  listened  impatiently 
at  first,  tramping  the  room  to  and  fro,  paused  presently,  and  his 
eyes  began  to  fill  and  his  hands  to  tremble.  So  that  when  Adam, 
having  ended,  said :  "Now,  will  you  not  go  to  Iceland  ?"  thinking 
in  his  heart  that  the  lad  would  fling  his  arms  about  him  and  cry: 
"No,  no,  never,  never,"  and  he  himself  would  then  answer:  "My 
boy,  my  boy,  you  shall  stay  here,  you  shall  stay  here,"  Michael 
Sunlocks,  his  heart  swelling  and  his  eyes  glistening  with  a  great 
new  pride  and  tenderness,  said  softly:  "Yes,  yes — for  a  father 
like  that  I  would  cross  the  world." 

Adam  Fairbrother  said  not  a  word  more.  He  blew  out  the 
candle  that  shone  on  his  face,  sat  down  before  the  fire,  and  through 
three  hours  thereafter  smoked  in  silence. 

The  next  day,  being  Monday,  Greeba  was  sent  on  to  Lague, 
that  her  mother  and  brothers  might  see  her  after  her  long  absence 
from  the  island.  She  was  to  stay  there  until  the  Monday  follow- 
ing, that  she  might  be  at  Ramsey  to  bid  good-by  to  Michael  Sun- 
locks  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  Iceland. 

Three  days  more  Michael  spent  at  Government  House,  and 
on  the  morning  of  Friday,  being  fully  ready  and  his  leather  trunk 
gone  on  before  in  care  of  Chaise  A'Killey,  who  would  suffer  no 
one  else  to  carry  it,  he  was  mounted  for  his  journey  on  the  little 
roan  Goldie  when  up  came  the  Governor  astride  his  cob. 

"I'l  just  set  you  as  far  as  Ballasalla,"  he  said,  jauntily,  and  they 
rode  away  together. 

All  the  week  through  since  their  sad  talk  on  Easter  Day  old 
Adam  had  affected  a  wondrous  cheerfulness,  and  now  he  laughed 
mightily  as  they  rode  along,  and  winked  his  gray  eyes  knowingly 
like  a  happy  child's,  until  sometimes  from  one  cause  or  other  the 
big  drops  came  into  them.  The  morning  was  fresh  and  sweet,  with 
the  earth  full  of  gladness  and  the  air  of  song,  though  Michael 
Sunlocks  was  little  touched  by  its  beauty  and  thought  it  the  heav- 
iest he  had  yet  seen.  But  Adam  told  how  the  spring  was  toward, 
and  the  lambs  in  fold,  and  the  heifers  thriving,  and  how  the  April 
rain  would  bring  potatoes  down  to  sixpence  a  kishen,  and  fetch 
up  the  grass  in  such  a  crop  that  the  old  island  would  rise — why 
not  ?  ha,  ha  ha ! — to  the  opulence  and  position  of  a  State. 


<5o  THE   BONDMAN 

But,  rattle  on  as  he  would,  he  could  neither  banish  the  heavy 
looks  of  Michael  Sunlocks  nor  make  light  the  weary  heart  he 
bore  himself.  So  he  began  to  rally  the  lad,  and  say  how  little  he 
would  have  thought  of  a  trip  to  Iceland  in  his  old  days  at  Guinea ; 
that  it  was  only  a  hop,  skip,  and  a  jump  after  all,  and,  bless  his 
old  soul,  if  he  wouldn't  cut  across  some  day  to  see  him  between 
Tynwald  and  Midsummer — and  many  a  true  word  was  said 
in  jest. 

Soon  they  came  by  Rushen  Abbey  at  Ballasalla,  and  then  old 
Adam  could  hold  back  no  longer  what  he  had  come  to  say. 

"You'll  see  your  father  before  you  sail,"  he  said,  "and  I'm 
thinking  he'll  give  you  a  better  reason  for  going  than  he  has  given 
to  me;  but,  if  not,  and  Bishop  Petersen  and  the  Latin  School  is 
all  his  end  and  intention,  remember  our  good  Manx  saying  that 
'learning  is  fine  clothes  to  the  rich  man,  and  riches  to  the  poor 
one.'  And  that  minds  me,"  he  said,  plunging  deep  into  his  pocket, 
"of  another  good  Manx  saying,  that  'there  are  just  two  bad  pays — 
pay  beforehand  and  no  pay  at  all' ;  so  to  save  you  from  both,  who 
have  earned  yourself  neither,  put  you  this  old  paper  into  your 
fob — and  God  bless  ye !" 

So  saying,  he  thrust  into  the  lad's  hand  a  roll  of  fifty  Manx 
pound  notes,  and  then  seemed  about  to  whip  away.  But  Michael 
Sunlocks  had  him  by  the  sleeve  before  he  could  turn  his  horse's 
head. 

"Bless  me  yourself,"  the  lad  said. 

And  then  Adam  Fairbrother,  with  all  his  poor  bankrupt  whim- 
sies gone  from  his  upturned  face,  now  streaming  wet,  and  with  his 
white  hair  gently  lifted  by  the  soft  morning  breeze,  rose  in  the 
saddle  and  laid  his  hand  on  Michael's  drooping  head  and  blessed 
him.  And  so  they  parted,  not  soon  to  meet  again,  or  until  many 
a  strange  chance  had  befallen  both. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  day  following  that  Michael  Sun- 
locks  rode  into  Port-y-Vullin.  If  he  could  have  remembered  how 
he  had  left  it,  as  an  infant  in  his  father's  arms,  perhaps  the  task 
he  had  set  himself  would  have  been  an  easier  one.  He  was  trying 
to  crush  down  his  shame,  and  it  was  very  hard  to  do.  He  was 
thinking  that  go  where  he  would  he  must  henceforth  bear  his 
father's  name. 

Stephen  Orry  was  waiting  for  him,  having  been  there  three 
days,  not  living  in  the  little  hut,  but  washing  it,  cleaning  it,  drying 
it,  airing  it,  and  kindling  fires  in  it,  that  by  such  close  labor  of  half 
a  week  it  might  be  worthy  that  his  son  should  cross  its  threshold 
for  half  an  hour.  He  had  never  slept  in  it  since  he  had  nailed  up 


THE   BONDMAN  61 

the  door  after  the  death  of  Liza  Killey,  and  as  an  unblessed  place 
it  had  been  safe  from  the  intrusion  of  others. 

He  saw  Michael  Sunlocks  riding  up,  and  raised  his  cap  to  hiir 
as  he  alighted,  saying  "Sir"  to  him,  and  bowing  as  he  did  so, 
There  were  deep  scars  on  his  face  and  head,  his  hands  were 
scratched  and  discolored,  his  cheeks  were  furrowed  with  wrinkles, 
and  about  his  whole  person  there  -was  a  strong  odor  of  tobacco, 
tar,  and  bilge  water. 

"I  shall  not  have  aught  to  ask  you  here,  sir,"  he  said,  in  his 
broken  English. 

"Call  me  Michael,"  the  lad  answered,  and  then  they  went  into 
the  hut. 

The  place  was  not  much  more  cheerful  than  of  old,  but  still 
dark,  damp,  and  ruinous;  and  Michael  Sunlocks,  at  the  thought 
that  he  himself  had  been  born  there,  and  that  his  mother  had  lived 
her  shameful  life  and  died  her  dishonored  death  there,  found  the 
gall  again  in  his  throat. 

"I  have  something  that  I  shall  have  to  say  to  you,"  said  Stephen 
Orry,  "but  I  can  not  well  speak  English.  Not  all  the  years  through 
I  never  shall  have  learn  it."  And  then,  as  if  by  a  sudden  thought, 
he  spoke  six  words  in  his  native  Icelandic,  and  glanced  quickly  into 
the  face  of  Michael  Sunlocks. 

At  the  next  instant  the  great  rude  fellow  was  crying  like  a 
child.  He  had  seen  that  Michael  understood  him.  And  Michael, 
on  his  part,  seemed  at  the  sound  of  those  words  to  find  something 
melt  at  his  heart,  something  fall  from  his  eyes,  something  rise  to 
his  throat. 

"Call  me  Michael,"  he  said  once  more.  "I  am  your  son" ;  and 
then  they  talked  together,  Stephen  Orry  in  the  Icelandic,  Michael 
Sunlocks  in  English. 

"I've  not  been  a  good  father  to  you,  Michael,  never  coming  to 
see  you  all  these  years.  But  I  wanted  you  to  grow  up  a  better 
man  than  your  father  before  you.  A  man  may  be  bad,  but  he 
doesn't  like  his  son  to  feel  ashamed  of  him.  And  I  was  afraid  to 
see  it  in  your  face,  Michael.  That's  why  I  stayed  away.  But 
many  a  time  I  felt  hungry  after  my  little  lad,  that  I  loved  so  dear 
and  nursed  so  long,  like  any  mother  might.  And  hearing  of  him 
sometimes,  and  how  well  he  looked,  and  how  tall  he  grew,  maybe 
I  didn't  think  the  less  about  him  for  not  coming  down  upon  him  to 
shame  him." 

"Stop,  father,  stop,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"My  son,"  said  Stephen  Orry,  "you  are  going  back  to  your 
father's  country.  It's  nineteen  years  since  he  left  it,  and  he  hadn't 


62  THE   BONDMAN 

lived  a  good  life  there.  You'll  meet  many  a  one  your  father  knew, 
and,  maybe,  some  your  father  did  wrong  by.  He  can't  undo  the 
bad  work  now.  There's  a  sort  of  wrong-doing  there's  no  mending 
once  it's  done,  and  that's  the  sort  his  was.  It  was  against  a  woman. 
Some  people  seem  to  be  sent  into  this  world  to  be  punished  for 
the  sins  of  others.  Women  are  mostly  that  way,  though  there  are 
those  that  are  not;  but  she  was  one  of  them.  It'll  be  made  up  to 
them  in  the  other  world;  and  if  she  has  gone  there  she  has  taken 
some  of  my  sins  along  with  her  own — if  she  had  any,  and  I  never 
heard  tell  of  any.  But  if  she  is  in  this  world  still,  perhaps  it  can 
be  partly  made  up  to  her  here.  Only  it  is  not  for  me  to  do  it,  see- 
ing what  has  happened  since.  Michael,  that's  why  you  are  going 
to  my  country  now." 

"Tell  me   everything,"   said   Michael. 

Then  Stephen  Orry,  his  deep  voice  breaking  and  his  gray  eyes 
burning  with  the  slow  fire  that  had  lain  nineteen  years  asleep  at 
the  bottom  of  them,  told  his  son  the  story  of  his  life — of  Rachel  and 
of  her  father  and  her  father's  curse,  of  what  she  had  given  up  and 
suffered  for  him,  and  of  how  he  had  repaid  her  with  neglect,  with 
his  mother's  contempt,  and  with  his  own  blow.  Then  of  her  threat 
and  his  flight  and  his  coming  to  that  island;  of  his  meeting  with 
Liza,  of  his  base  marriage  with  the  woman  and  the  evil  days  they 
spent  together;  of  their  child's  birth  and  his  own  awful  resolve 
in  his  wretchedness  and  despair;  and  then  of  the  woman's  death, 
wherein  the  Almighty  God  had  surely  turned  to  mercy  what  was 
meant  for  vengeance.  All  this  he  told  and  more  than  this,  sparing 
himself  not  at  all.  And  Michael  listened  with  a  bewildered  sense 
of  fear  and  shame,  and  love  and  sorrow,  that  may  not  be  described, 
growing  hot  and  cold  by  turns,  rising  from  his  seat  and  sinking 
back  again,  looking  about  the  walls  with  a  chill  terror,  as  the 
scenes  they  had  witnessed  seemed  to  come  back  to  them  before  his 
eyes,  feeling  at  one  moment  a  great  horror  of  the  man  before  him, 
and  at  the  next  a  great  pity,  and  then  clutching  his  father's  huge 
hands  in  his  own  nervous  fingers. 

"Now  you  know  all,"  said  Stephen  Orry,  "and  why  it  is  not  for 
me  to  go  back  to  her.  There  is  another  woman  between  us,  God 
forgive  me,  and  dead  though  she  is,  that  woman  will  be  there  for- 
ever. But  she,  who  is  yonder,  in  my  own  country,  if  she  is  living, 
is  my  wife.  And  heaven  pity  her,  she  is  where  I  left  her — down, 
down,  down  among  the  dregs  of  life.  She  has  no  one  to  protect 
and  none  to  help  her.  She  is  deserted  for  her  father's  sake,  and 
despised  for  mine.  Michael,  will  you  go  to  her?" 

The  sudden  question  recalled  the  lad  from  a  painful  reverie. 


THE   BONDMAN  63 

He  had  been  thinking  of  his  own  position,  and  that  even  his 
father's  name,  which  an  hour  ago  he  had  been  ashamed  to  bear, 
was  not  his  own  to  claim.  But  Stephen  Orry  had  never  once 
thought  of  this,  or  that  the  dead  woman  who  stood  between  him 
and  Rachel  also  stood  between  Rachel  and  her  son. 

"Promise  me,  promise  me,"  he  cried,  seeing  one  thing  only — 
that  Michael  was  his  son,  that  his  son  was  as  himself,  and  that 
the  woman  who  was  dead  had  been  as  a  curse  to  both  of  them. 

But  Michael  Sunlocks  made  him  no  answer. 

"I've  gone  from  bad  to  worse — I  know  that,  Michael.  I've 
done  in  cold  blood  what  I'd  have  trembled  at  when  she  was  by 
me.  Maybe  I  was  thinking  sometimes  of  my  boy  even  then,  and 
saying  to  myself  how  some  day  he'd  go  back  for  me  to  my  own 
country,  when  I  had  made  the  money  to  send  him." 

Michael  trembled  visibly. 

"And  how  he'd  look  for  her,  and  find  her,  and  save  her,  if  she 
was  alive.  And  if  she  wasn't — if  she  was  dead,  poor  girl,  with  all 
her  troubles  over,  how  he'd  look  for  the  child  that  was  to  come 
when  I  left  her — my  child,  and  hers — and  find  it  where  it  would 
surely  be,  in  want  and  dirt  and  misery,  and  then  sate  it  for  its 
mother's  sake  and  mine.  Michael,  will  you  go?" 

But  still  Michael  Sunlocks  made  him  no  answer. 

"It's  fourteen  years  since  God  spared  your  life  to  me;  just 
fourteen  years  to-night,  Michael.  I  remembered  it,  and  that's  why 
we  are  here  now.  When  I  brought  you  back  in  my  arms  she  was 
there  at  my  feet,  lying  dead,  who  had  been  my  rod  and  punishment. 
Then  I  vowed,  as  I  should  answer  to  the  Lord  at  the  last  day, 
that  if  7  could  not  go  back,  you  should." 

Michael  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"My  son,  my  son — Michael,  my  little  Sunlocks,  I  want  to  keep 
my  vow.  Will  you  go?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  Michael,  rising  suddenly".  His  doubt  and 
pride  and  shame  were  gone.  He  felt  only  a  great  tenderness  now 
for  the  big  rude  man,  who  had  sinned  deeply  and  suffered  much 
and  found  that  all  he  could  do  alone  would  avail  him  nothing. 

"Father,  where  is  she?" 

"I  left  her  at  Reykjavik,  but  I  don't  know  where  she  is 
now." 

"No  matter,  I  will  hunt  the  world  over  until  I  find  her.  and 
when  I  have  found  her  I  will  be  as  a  son  to  her,  and  she  shall  be 
as  a  mother  to  me." 

"My  boy,  my  boy,"  cried  Stephen. 

"If  she  should  die,  and  we  should  never  meet,  I  will  Hunt  the 


64  THE    BONDMAN 

world  over  until  I  find  her  child,  and  when  I  have  found  it  I  will 
be  as  a  brother  to  it  for  my  father's  sake." 

"My  son,  my  son,"  cried  Stephen.  And  in  the  exultation  of 
that  moment,  when  he  tried  to  speak  but  no  words  would  come, 
and  only  his  rugged  cheeks  glistened  and  his  red  eyes  shone,  it 
seemed  to  Stephen  Orry  that  the  burden  of  twenty  heavy  years 
had  been  lifted  away. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  GOING   OF   SUNLOCKS 

IT  was  then  past  noon.  The  Irish  brig  was  in  the  harbor  taking 
in  Manx  cloth  and  potatoes,  a  few  cattle,  and  a  drove  of  sheep. 
At  the  flow  of  the  tide  it  was  to  go  out  into  the  bay  and  anchor 
there,  waiting  for  the  mails,  and  at  nine  o'clock  it  was  to  sail.  In 
the  meantime  Michael  was  to  arrange  for  his  passage,  and  at  half- 
past  eight  he  was  to  meet  his  father  on  the  quay. 

But  he  had  also  to  see  Greeba,  and  that  was  not  easy  to  do. 
The  family  at  Lague  had  heard  the  great  news  of  his  going,  and 
had  secretly  rejoiced  at  it,  but  they  refused  to  see  him  there,  even 
for  the  shortest  leave-taking  at  the  longest  parting.  And  at  the 
bare  mention  of  the  bargain  that  Greeba  had  made  with  him,  to 
bid  him  farewell  on  the  eve  of  his  departure,  all  the  Fairbrothers 
were  up  in  arms.  So  he  had  been  sorely  put  to  it  to  devise  a  means 
of  meeting  Greeba,  if  he  could  do  so  without  drawing  suspicion 
down  on  her;  for  come  what  might  of  risk  or  danger  to  himself 
he  meant  to  see  her  again  before  ever  he  set  foot  on  the  ship.  The 
expedient  he  could  not  hit  on  did  not  long  elude  a  woman's  wit, 
and  Greeba  found  the  way  by  which  they  were  to  meet. 

A  few  of  last  year's  heifers  were  grazing  on  Barrule  and  at 
nightfall  somebody  went  up  for  them  and  brought  them  home. 
She  would  go  that  night,  and  return  by  the  glen,  so  that  at  the 
bridge  by  the  turn  of  the  river  and  the  low  road  to  Lague,  where 
it  was  quiet  enough  sometimes,  she  could  meet  anybody  about  dusk 
and  nobody  be  the  wiser.  She  contrived  a  means  to  tell  Michael 
of  this,  and  he  was  prompt  to  her  appointment. 

The  day  had  been  fair  but  close,  with  a  sky  that  hung  low,  and 
with  not  a  breath  of  wind,  and  in  the  evening  when  the  mist  came 
down  from  the  mountain  a  fog  came  up  from  the  sea,  so  that  the 
air  was  empty  and  every  noise  went  through  it  as  if  it  had  been  a 
speaking-trumpet.  Standing  alone  on  the  bridge  under  the  quiet 


THE   BONDMAN  65 

elms,  Michael  could  hear  the  rattle  of  chains  and  the  whistling  of 
horns,  and  by  that  he  knew  that  the  brig  had  dropped  anchor  in 
the  bay.  But  he  strained  his  ears  for  other  sounds,  and  they 
came  at  last ;  the  thud  of  the  many  feet  of  the  heifers,  the  flapping 
of  their  tails,  the  cattle-call  in  a  girl's  clear  voice,  and  the  swish 
of  a  twig  that  she  carried  in  her  hand. 

Greeba  came  along  behing  the  cattle,  swinging  her  body  to  a 
jaunty  gait,  her  whole  person  radiant  with  health  and  happiness, 
her  long  gown,  close  at  the  back  and  loose  over  her  bosom,  showing 
well  her  tall  lithe  form  and  firm  bearing.  She  wore  no  bonnet, 
but  a  white  silk  handkerchief  was  tied  about  her  head,  half  cover- 
ing her  mouth,  and  leaving  visible  in  the  twilight  only  the  tip 
of  her  nose,  a  curl  of  her  hair,  and  her  bright  dark  eyes,  with  their 
long  bright  lashes.  She  was  singing  to  herself  as  she  came  up 
to  the  bridge,  with  an  unconcerned  and  unconscious  air.  At  sight 
of  Michael  she  made  a  start  and  a  little  nervous  cry,  so  that  he 
thought,  poor  lad,  not  knowing  the  ways  of  women,  that  for  all 
the  pains  she  had  been  at  to  fetch  him  she  had  somehow  not  ex- 
pected him  to  be  there. 

She  looked  him  over  from  head  to  foot,  and  her  eyes  gleamed 
from  the  white  kerchief. 

"So  you  are  going,  after  all,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  seemed 
to  him  the  sweetest  music  he  had  ever  heard.  "I  never  believed 
you  would,"  she  added. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  and  laughed  a  little.  "But 
I  suppose  there  are  girls  enough  in  Iceland,"  and  then  she 
laughed  outright.  "Only  they  can't  be  of  much  account  up 
there." 

"But  I've  heard  they  are  very  fine  girls,"  he  answered;  "and 
it's  a  fine  country,  too." 

She  tossed  her  head  and  laughed  and  swung  her  switch. 

"Fine  country !  The  idea !  Fine  company,  fine  people  and  a 
good  time.  That's  what  a  girl  wants  if  she's  worth  anything." 

"Then  I  suppose  you  will  go  back  to  London  some  day,"  he 
said. 

"That  doesn't  follow,"  she  answered.  "There's  father,  you  see; 
and,  oh,  what  a  pity  he  can't  live  at  Lague !" 

"Do  you  like  it  so  much?"  he  said. 

"Like  it?"  she  said,  her  eyes  full  of  laughter.  "Six  big  hungry 
brothers  coming  home  three  times  a  day  and  eating  up  everything 
in  the  house — it's  delightful !" 

She  seemed  to  him  magnificently  beautiful. 


66  THE   BONDMAN 

"I  dare  say  they'll  spoil  you  before  I  come  back,"  he  said,  "or 
somebody  else  will." 

She  gave  him  a  deliberate  glance  from  her  dark  eyes,  and  then 
threw  back  her  head  and  laughed.  He  could  see  the  heaving  of 
her  breast.  She  laughed  again — a  fresh,  merry  laugh — and  then 
he  tried  to  laugh  too,  thinking  of  the  foolish  thing  he  had  said. 

"But  if  there  are  plenty  of  girls  up  there,"  she  said,  slyly  glanc- 
ing under  her  long  lashes,  "and  they're  so  very  wonderful,  maybe 
you'll  be  getting  married  before  you  come  home  again  ?" 

"Maybe  so,"  he  said  quietly,  and  looked  vacantly  aside. 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  a  sharp  snap  or  two  broke  the  silence 
and  recalled  him  to  the  maiden  by  his  side.  She  was  only  breaking 
up  the  twig  she  had  carried. 

There  was  another  pause,  in  which  he  could  hear  the  rippling 
of  the  river  and  the  leaping  of  a  fish.  The  heifers  were  munching 
the  grass  by  the  roadside  a  little  ahead. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said  coldly,  "or  they'll  be  out  seeking  me." 

"I'll  walk  with  you  as  far  as  Lague — it's  dark,"  he  said. 

"No,  no,  you  must  not !"  she  cried,  and  fumbling  the  loose  fold 
about  her  throat  she  turned  to  go. 

But  he  laid  hold  of  her  arm. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"Only  think  of  my  brothers.  Your  very  life  would  be  in 
danger." 

"If  all  six  of  them  were  ranged  across  the  other  end  of  this 
bridge,  and  you  had  to  walk  the  rest  of  the  road  alone,  I  would  go 
through  them,"  he  said. 

She  saw  the  high  lift  of  his  neck  and  she  smiled  proudly. 
Then  they  walked  on  some  distance.  He  was  gazing  at  her  in 
silence.  There  was  a  conscious  delight  of  her  beauty  in  the  swing 
of  her  step  and  the  untamed  glance  of  her  eyes. 

"Since  the  country  is  so  fine  I  suppose  you'll  stay  a  long  while 
there?"  she  said  in  her  sweetest  tone. 

"No  longer  than  I   must,"   he   answered. 

"Why  not?" 

"I   don't  know." 

"But  why  not?"  she  said  again,  looking  at  him  sidewise  with 
a  gleam  of  a  smile. 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  laughed  merrily. 

"What  a  girl  you  are  for  laughing,"  he  said.  "It  may  be  very 
laughable  to  you  that  I'm  going  away — " 

"But  isn't  it  to  you?  Eh?"  she  said,  as  fast  as  a  flash  of 
quicksilver. 


THE   BONDMAN  67 

He  had  no  answer,  so  he  tried  to  laugh  also,  and  to  take  her 
hand  at  the  same  time.  She  was  too  quick  for  him,  and  swung 
half  a  pace  aside.  They  were  then  at  the  gate  of  Lague,  where 
long  years  before  Stephen  Orry  first  saw  the  light  through  the 
elms.  A  late  rook  was  still  cawing  overhead;  the  heifers  had  gone 
on  toward  the  courtyard. 

"You  must  go  now,  so  good-by,"  she  said,  softly. 

"Greeba,"  he  said. 

"Well?  Only  speak  lower,"  she  whispered,  coming  closer.  He 
could  feel  the  warm  glow  of  her  body. 

"Do  you  think,  now,  if  I  should  be  a  long  time  away — years  it 
may  be,  perhaps  many  years — we  should  ever  forget  each  other, 
we  two  ?" 

"Forget?    No,  not  to  say  forget,  you  know,"  she  answered. 

"But  should  we  remember?" 

"Remember?  You  silly,  silly  boy,  if  we  should  not  forget 
how  ever  could  we  fail  to  remember?" 

"Don't  laugh  at  me,  Greeba;  and  promise  me  one  thing,"  and 
then  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 

She  sprang  away  and  laughed  once  more,  and  started  to  run 
down  the  path.  But  in  three  strides  he  had  her  again. 

"That  will  not  do  for  me,  Greeba,"  he  said,  breathing  fast. 
"Promise  me  that  you  will  wait  for  me." 

"Well,"  she  said  softly,  her  dark  eyes  full  of  merriment,  "I'll 
promise  that  while  you  are  away  no  one  else  shall  spoil  me.  There ! 
Good-by !" 

She  was  tearing  herself  out  of  his  hands. 

"First  give  me  a  token,"  he  said. 

Daffodils  lined  the  path,  though  in  the  dusk  he  could  not  see 
them.  But  she  knew  they  were  there,  and  stopped  and  plucked 
two,  blew  upon  both,  gave  one  to  him,  and  put  the  other  into  the 
folds  at  her  bosom. 

"Good-by !     Good-by !"  she  said  in  an  under-breath. 

"Good-by!"  he  answered. 

She  ran  a  few  steps,  but  he  could  not  let  her  go  yet,  and  in  an 
instant  he  sprang  abreast  of  her.  He  threw  one  arm  about  her 
waist  and  the  other  about  her  neck,  tipped  up  her  chin,  and  kissed 
her  on  the  lips.  A  gurgling  laugh  came  up  to  him. 

"Remember !"  he  whispered  over  the  upturned  face  in  the  white 
kerchief. 

At  the  next  instant  he  was  gone.  Then,  standing  under  the 
dark  elms  alone,  she  heard  the  porch  door  opening,  a  heavy  foot 
treading  on  the  gravel,  and  a  deep  voice  saying : 


68  THE   BONDMAN 

"Here  are  the  heifers  home,  but  where's  the  little  lass?" 

It  was  her  eldest  brother,  Asher,  and  she  walked  up  to  him  and 

said  quite  calmly: 

"Oh !  what  a  bad  hasp  that  gate  has — it  takes  such  a  time  to 

open  and  close." 

Michael  Sunlocks  reached  the  harbor  at  the  time  appointed. 
As  he  crossed  the  quay  some  fishermen  were  lounging  there  with 
pipes  between  their  teeth.  A  few  of  them  came  up  to  him  to  bid 
him  Godspeed  in  their  queer  way. 

Stephen  Orry  was  standing  apart  by  the  head  of  the  harbor 
steps,  and  at  the  bottom  of  them  his  boat,  a  yawl,  was  lying  moored. 
They  got  into  it  and  Stephen  sculled  out  of  the  harbor.  It  was  still 
very  thick  over  the  town,  but  they  could  see  the  lights  of  the  Irish 
brig  in  the  bay.  Outside  the  pier  the  air  was  fresher,  and  there 
was  something  of  a  swell  on  the  water. 

"The  fog  is  lifting,"  said  Stephen  Orry.  "There'll  be  a  taste  of 
a  breeze  before  long." 

He  seemed  as  if  he  had  something  to  say,  but  did  not  know  how 
to  begin.  His  eye  caught  the  light  on  Point  of  Ayre. 

"When  are  they  to  build  the  lighthouse?"  he  asked. 

"After  the  spring  tides,"  said  Michael. 

They  were  about  midway  between  the  pier  and  the  brig  when 
Stephen  rested  his  scull  under  his  arm  and  drew  something  from 
one  of  his  pockets. 

"This  is  the  money,"  he  said,  and  he  held  out  a  bag  toward 
Michael  Sunlocks. 

"No,"  said  Michael,  and  he  drew  quickly  back. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Michael  added,  more 
softly : 

"I  mean,  father,  that  I  have  enough  already.  Mr.  Fairbrother 
gave  me  some.  It  was  fifty  pounds." 

Stephen  Orry  turned  his  head  aside  and  looked  over  the  dark 
water.  Then  he  said: 

"I  suppose  that  was  so  that  you  wouldn't  need  to  touch  money 
same  as  mine." 

Michael's  heart  smote  him.  "Father,"  he  said,  "how  much 
is  it?" 

"A  matter  of  two  hundred  pounds,"  said  Stephen. 

"How  long  has  it  taken  you  to  earn — to  get  it?" 

"Fourteen  years." 

"And  have  you  been  saving  it  up  for  me?" 

"Ay." 


THE   BONDMAN  69 

"To  take  me  to  Iceland?" 

"Ay." 

"How  much  more  have  you?" 

"Not  a  great  deal." 

"But  how  much?" 

"I  don't  know — scarcely." 

"Have  you  any  more  ?" 

Stephen  made  no  answer. 

"Have  you  any  more,  father?" 

"No." 

Michael  Sunlocks  felt  his  face  flush  deep  in  the  darkness. 

"Father,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  broke,  "we  are  parting,  you  a^d 
I,  and  we  may  not  meet  again  soon;  indeed,  we  may  never  meet 
again.  I  have  made  you  a  solemn  promise.  Will  you  not  make 
me  one  ?" 

"What  is  it,  sir?" 

"That  you  will  never,  never  try  to  get  more  by  the  same  means." 

"There'll  be  no  occasion  now." 

"But  will  you  promise  me?'^ 

"Ay."' 

"Then  give  me  the  money." 

Stephen  handed  the  bag  to  Michael. 

"It's  fourteen  years  of  your  life,  is  it  not?" 

"So  to  say." 

"And  now  it's  mine,  isn't  it,  to  do  as  I  like  with  it?" 

"No,  sir,  but  to  do  as  you  ought  with  it." 

"Then  I  ought  to  give  it  back  to  you.  Come,  take  it.  But 
wait !  Remember  your  promise,  father.  Don't  forget — I've  bought 
every  hour  of  your  life  that's  left." 

Father  and  son  parted  at  the  ship's  side  in  silence,  with  throats 
too  full  for  speech.  Many  small  boats,  pulled  by  men  and  boys, 
were  lying  about  the  ladder,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  shouting 
and  swearing  and  noisy  laughter  there.  Some  of  the  boatmen  rec- 
ognized Michael  Sunlocks  and  bellowed  their  farewells  to  him. 
"Dy  banne  Jee  oof" 

"God  bless  you !  God  bless  you !"  they  said,  and  then  among 
themselves  they  seemed  to  discuss  the  reason  of  his  going.  "Well, 
what's  it  saying?"  said  one;  "the  crab  that  lies  always  in  its 
hole  is  never  fat." 

The  air  had  freshened,  the  swell  of  the  sea  had  risen,  and  a 
sharp  breeze  was  coming  up  from  the  east.  Stephen  Orry  stepped 
to  his  mast,  hoisted  mainsail  and  mizzen,  and  stood  out  to  sea.  He 
had  scarcely  got  clear  away  when  he  heard  the  brig  weigh  its 


;o 


THE   BONDMAN 


anchor  and  beat  down  behind  him.  They  were  making  toward  the 
Point  of  Ayre,  and  when  they  came  by  the  light  Stephen  Orry 
slackened  off,  and  watched  the  ship  go  by  him  in  the  darkness. 

He  felt  as  if  that  were  the  last  he  was  ever  to  see  of  his  son  in 
this  world.  And  he  loved  him  with  all  the  strength  of  his  great 
broken,  bleeding  heart.  At  that  thought  the  outcast  man  laid  his 
head  in  his  hands,  where  he  sat  crouching  at  the  tiller,  and  sobbed. 
There  were  none  to  hear  him  there;  he  was  alone;  and  the  low 
moan  of  the  sea  came  up  through  the  night  from  where  his  son 
was  sailing  away. 

How  long  he  sat  there  he  did  not  know ;  he  was  thinking  of  his 
past,  of  his  bad  life  in  Iceland,  and  his  long  expiation  in  the  Isle 
of  Man.  In  the  multitude  of  his  sensations  it  seemed  impossible 
to  his  dazed  mind  to  know  which  of  these  two  had  been  the  worst, 
or  the  most  foolish.  Together  they  had  left  him  a  wreck.  In  the 
one  he  had  thrown  away  the  wife  who  loved  him,  in  the  other  he 
had  given  up  the  son  whom  he  loved.  What  was  left  to  him? 
Nothing.  He  was  a  waif,  despised  and  downtrodden.  He  thought 
of  what  might  have  happened  to  him  if  the  chances  of  life  had 
been  different,  and  in  that  first  hour  of  his  last  bereavement  all 
the  softening  influences  of  nineteen  years,  the  uplooking  and  up- 
working,  and  the  struggle  toward  atonement,  were  as  much  gone 
from  him  as  if  they  had  never  been.  Then  he  thought  of  the  money, 
and  told  himself  that  it  was  not  now  that  he  lost  his  son  for  the 
first  time;  he  had  lost  him  fourteen  years  ago,  when  he  parted 
with  him  to  the  Governor.  Since  then  their  relations  had  been 
reversed.  His  little  Sunlocks  was  his  little  Sunlocks  no  longer. 
He  felt  humiliated,  he  felt  hardened,  and  by  a  strange  impulse, 
whereof  he  understood  but  little,  he  cursed  in  his  heart  his  suffer- 
ings more  than  his  sins.  They  had  been  useless,  they  had  been 
wasted,  and  he  had  been  a  fool  not  to  live  for  himself.  But  in 
that  moment,  when  the  devil  seemed  to  make  havoc  of  good  and 
evil  together,  God  himself  was  not  doing  nothing. 

Stephen  Orry  was  drifting  with  the  tide,  when  all  at  once  he 
became  conscious  of  the  lapping  of  the  water  on  stones  near  at 
hand,  and  of  a  bright  light  shed  over  the  sea.  Then  he  saw  he 
had  drifted  close  to  low  ground  off  the  Point  of  Ayre.  He  bore 
hard  aport  and  beat  out  to  sea  again.  Very  soon  the  white  water- 
way was  behind  him ;  nothing  was  visible  save  the  dark  hull  of  the 
vessel  going  off  toward  the  north,  and  nothing  audible  save  the  cry 
of  a  few  gulls  that  were  fishing  by  the  light  of  the  flare.  It  had 
been  the  work  of  three  minutes  only,  but  in  that  time  one  vivid  im- 
pression had  fixed  itself  in  Stephen's  preoccupied  mind.  The  end 


THE    BONDMAN  71 

of  the  old  sandstone  pier  had  been  battered  down  by  a  recent  storm; 
the  box  that  once  held  the  light  had  gone  down  with  it,  a  pole  had 
been  thrust  out  at  an  angle  from  the  overthrown  stones,  and  from 
the  end  of  this  pole  the  light  swung  by  a  rope.  No  idea  connected 
itself  with  this  impression,  which  lay  low  down  down  behind  other 
thoughts. 

The  fog  had  lifted,  but  the  night  was  still  very  dark.  Not  a 
star  was  shining  and  no  moon  appeared.  Yet  Stephen's  eye — the 
eye  of  a  sailor  accustomed  to  the  darkness  of  the  sea  at  night — 
could  descry  something  that  lay  to  the  north.  The  Irish  brig  had 
disappeared.  Yes,  her  sails  were  now  gone.  But  out  at  sea — 
far  out,  half  a  league  away — what  black  thing  was  there?  Oh, 
it  must  be  a  cloud,  that  was  all ;  and  no  doubt  a  storm  was  brew- 
ing. Yet  no,  it  was  looming  larger  and  larger,  and  coming  nearer 
and  nearer.  It  was  a  sail.  Stephen  could  see  it  plainly  enough 
now  against  the  leaden  sky.  It  was  a  schooner;  he  could  make 
out  its  two  masts,  with  fore  and  aft  sails.  It  was  an  Irish  schooner; 
he  could  recognize  its  heavy  hull  and  hollowed  cutwater.  It  was 
tacking  against  wind  and  tide  from  the  northeast ;  it  was  a  Dub- 
lin schooner  and  was  homeward  bound  from  Iceland,  having  called 
at  Whitehaven  and  now  putting  in  at  Ramsey. 

Stephen  Orry  had  been  in  the  act  of  putting  about  when  this 
object  caught  his  eye,  but  now  a  strange  thing  occurred.  All  at 
once  his  late  troubles  lay  back  in  his  mind,  and  by  a  sort  of  un- 
conscious mechanical  habit  of  intellect  he  began  to  put  familiar 
ideas  together.  This  schooner  that  was  coming  from  Iceland  would 
be  heavy  laden ;  it  would  have  whalebone,  and  eider  down,  and  tal- 
low. If  it  ran  ashore  and  was  wrecked  some  of  this  cargp  might 
be  taken  by  some  one  and  sold  for  something  to  a  French  smuggler 
that  lay  outside  the  Chicken  Rocks.  That  flare  on  the  Point  of 
Ayre  was  the  only  sea-light  on  this  north  coast  of  the  island,  and 
it  hung  by  a  rope  from  a  pole.  The  land  lay  low  about  it,  there 
was  not  a  house  on  that  sandy  headland  for  miles  on  miles,  and  the 
night  was  very  dark.  All  this  came  up  to  Stephen  Orry's  mind  by 
no  effort  of  will ;  he  looked  out  of  his  dull  eyes  on  the  dull  stretch 
of  sea  and  sky,  and  the  thoughts  were  there  of  themselves. 

What  power  outside  himself  was  at  work  with  him?  Did  any- 
thing tell  him  that  this  was  the  great  moment  of  his  life — that  his 
destiny  hung  on  it — that  the  ordeal  he  had  just  gone  through  was 
as  nothing  to  the  ordeal  that  was  yet  before  him  ?  As  he  sat  in  his 
boat,  peering  into  the  darkness  at  the  black  shadow  on  the  horizon, 
did  any  voice  whisper  in  his  ear :  "Stephen  Orry,  on  the  ship  that 
is  yonder  there  is  one  who  hates  you  and  has  sworn  to  slay  you? 


72  THE    BONDMAN 

He  is  coming,  he  is  coming,  and  he  is  flesh  of  your  flesh?  He  is 
your  own  son,  and  Rachel's  ?" 

Stephen  Orry  fetched  his  boat  away  to  leeward,  and  in  two  min- 
utes more  he  had  run  down  the  light  on  the  Point  of  Ayre.  The 
light  fell  into  the  water,  and  then  all  was  dark.  Stephen  Orry 
steered  on  over  the  freshening  sea,  and  then  slackened  off  to  wait 
and  watch.  All  this  time  he  had  been  sitting  at  the  tiller,  never 
having  risen  from  it  since  he  stepped  his  mast  by  the  side  of  the 
brig.  Now  he  got  on  his  feet  to  shorten  sail,  for  the  wind  was 
rising  and  he  meant  to  drift  by  the  mizzen.  As  he  rose  something 
fell  with  a  clank  to  the  boat's  bottom  from  his  lap  or  his  pocket. 
It  was  the  bag  of  money,  which  Michael  Sunlocks  had  returned 
to  him. 

Stephen  Orry  stooped  down  to  pick  it  up;  and  having  it  in  his 
hand  he  dropped  back  like  a  man  who  has  been  dealt  a  blow.  Then, 
indeed,  a  voice  rang  in  his  ears;  he  could  hear  it  over  the  wind 
that  was  rising,  the  plash  of  the  white  breakers  on  the  beach,  and 
the  low  boom  of  the  deep  sea  outside.  "Remember  your  promise, 
father.  I  have  bought  every  hour  of  your  life  that's  left." 

His  heart  seem  to  stand  still.  He  looked  around  in  the  dull 
agony  of  fear  that  was  new  to  him,  turning  his  eyes  first  to  the 
headland  that  showed  faintly  against  the  heavy  sky,  then  to  the 
pier  where  no  light  now  shone,  and  then  to  the  black  cloud  of  sail 
that  grew  larger  every  instant.  One  minute  passed — two — three. 
Meantime  the  black  cloud  of  sail  was  drawing  closer.  There  were 
living  men  aboard  of  that  ship,  and  they  were  running  on  to  their 
death.  Yes,  they  were  men,  living  men — men  with  wives  who 
loved  them,  and  children  who  climbed  to  their  knees.  But  perhaps 
they  had  seen  the  light  when  it  went  down.  Merciful  heaven,  let  it 
be  so — let  it  be  so ! 

The  soul  of  Stephen  Orry  was  awake  at  length.  Another 
minute  he  waited,  another  and  another,  and  the  black  shadow 
came  yet  nearer.  At  her  next  fack  the  ship  would  run  on  the  land, 
and  already  Stephen  seemed  to  hear  the  grating  of  her  keel  over 
the  rocks  below  the  beach.  He  could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer, 
and  hoisted  sail  to  bear  down  on  the  schooner  and  warn  her.  But 
the  wind  was  strong  by  this  time,  driving  hard  off  the  sea  and  the 
tide  ran  faster  than  before. 

Stephen  Orry  was  now  some  thirty  fathoms'  space  to  the  north 
of  the  broken  pier,  and  at  that  point  the  current  from  across  Maug- 
hold  Head  meets  the  current  going  across  the  Mull  of  Galloway. 
Laboring  in  the  heavy  sea  he  could  barely  fetch  about,  but  when 
at  last  he  got  head  out  to  sea  he  began  to  drive  down  on  the 


THE   BONDMAN  73 

schooner  at  a  furious  speed.  He  tried  to  run  close  along  by  her  on 
the  weather  side,  but  before  he  came  within  a  hundred  fathoms  he 
saw  that  he  was  in  the  full  race  of  the  north  current,  and  strong 
seaman  though  he  was,  he  could  not  get  near.  Then  he  shouted, 
but  the  wind  carried  away  his  voice.  He  shouted  again,  but  the 
schooner  gave  no  sign.  In  the  darkness  the  dark  vessel  scudded 
past  him. 

He  was  now  like  a  man  possessed.  Fetching  about,  he  ran  in 
before  the  wind,  thinking  to  pass  the  schooner  on  her  tack.  He 
passed  her  indeed:  he  was  shot  far  beyond  her,  shouting  as  he 
went,  but  again  his  voice  was  drowned  in  the  roar  of  the  sea.  He 
was  almost  atop  of  the  breakers  now,  yet  he  fetched  about  once 
more,  and  shouted  again  and  again  and  again.  But  the  ship  came 
on  and  on,  and  no  one  heard  the  wild  voice,  that  rang  out  between 
the  dark  sea  and  sky  like  the  cry  of  a  strong  swimmer  in  his  last 
agony. 

CHAPTER   IX 

THE     COMING     OF     JASON 

THE  schooner  was  the  "Peveril,"  homeward  bound  from  Reyk- 
javik to  Dublin,  with  a  hundred  tons  of  tallow,  fifty  bales  of  eider 
down,  and  fifty  casks  of  cods'  and  sharks'  oil.  Leaving  the  Ice- 
landic capital  on  the  morning  after  Easter  Day,  with  a  fair  wind, 
for  the  outer  Hebrides,  she  had  run  through  the  North  Channel 
by  the  middle  of  the  week,  and  put  into  Whitehaven  on  the  Fri- 
day. Next  day  she  had  stood  out  over  the  Irish  Sea  for  the  Isle  of 
Man,  intending  to  lie  off  at  Ramsey  for  contraband  rum.  Her 
skipper  and  mate  were  both  Englishmen,  and  her  crew  were  all 
Irish,  except  two,  a  Manxman  and  an  Icelander. 

The  Manxman  was  a  grizzled  old  seadog,  who  had  followed 
the  Manx  fisheries  twenty  years  and  smuggling  twenty  other  years, 
and  then  turned  seaman  before  the  mast.  His  name  was  Davy 
Kerruish,  and  when  folks  asked  if  the  Methodists  had  got  hold  of 
him  that  he  had  turned  honest  in  his  old  age,  he  closed  one  rheumy 
yellow  eye  very  knowingly,  tipped  one  black  thumb  over  his 
shoulder  to  where  the  Government  cutters  lay  anchored  outside, 
and  said  in  a  touching  voice:  "Aw,  well,  boy,  I'm  thinking  Castle 
Rushen  isn't  no  place  for  a  poor  man  when  he's  gettin*  anyways 
ould." 

The  Icelander  was  a  brawny  young  fellow  of  about  twenty,  of 
great  height  and  big  muscles,  and  with  long  red  hair.  He  had 
4  Vol.  II. 


74 


THE    BONDMAN 


shipped  at  Reykjavik,  in  the  room  of  an  Irishman  who  had  died  on 
the  outward  trip  and  been  buried  at  sea  off  the  Engy  Island.  He 
was  not  a  favorite  among  the  crew ;  he  spoke  English  well,  but  was 
no  good  at  a  yarn  in  the  forecastle ;  he  was  silent,  gloomy,  not  too 
fond  of  work,  and  often  the  butt  of  his  mates  in  many  a  lumbering 
jest  that  he  did  not  seem  to  see.  He  had  signed  on  the  wharf  on 
the  morning  the  schooner  sailed,  and  the  only  kit  he  had  brought 
aboard  was  a  rush  cage  with  a  canary.  He  hung  the  bird  in  the 
darkness  above  his  bunk,  and  it  was  all  but  his  sole  companion. 
Now  and  again  he  spoke  to  old  Kerruish,  but  hardly  ever  to  the 
other  men. 

"Och,  sollum  and  quiet  lek,"  old  Davy  would  say  at  the  galley 
Jire,  "but  none  so  simple  at  all.  Aw  no,  no,  no;  and  wonderful 
cur'ous  about  my  own  bit  of  an  island  yander." 

The  Icelander  was  Jason,  son  of  Rachel  and  Stephen  Orry. 

There  is  not  a  more  treacherous  channel  around  the  British! 
Isles  than  that  which  lies  between  St.  Bee's  Head,  the  Mull  of  Gal- 
loway, and  the  Point  of  Ayre,  for  four  strong  currents  meet  and 
fight  in  that  neck  of  the  Irish  Sea.  With  a  stiff  breeze  on  the  port 
quarter,  the  "Percival"  had  been  driven  due  west  from  Whitehaven 
on  the  heavy  current  from  the  Solway  Frith,  until  she  had  met  the 
current  from  the  North  Channel  and  then  she  had  tacked  down 
toward  the  Isle  of  Man.  It  was  dark  by  that  time,  and  the  skipper 
had  leaned  over  the  starboard  gangway  until  he  had  sighted  the 
light  on  the  Point  of  Ayre.  Even  then  he  had  been  puzzled,  for 
the  light  was  feebler  than  he  remembered  it. 

"Can  you  make  it  out,  Davy?"  he  had  said  to  old  Kerruish. 

"Aw,  yes,  though;  and  plain  as  plain,"  said  Davy;  and  then 
the  skipper  had  gone  below. 

The  Manxman  had  been  at  the  helm,  and  Jason,  who  was  on 
the  same  watch,  had  sidled  up  to  him  at  intervals  and  held  a  con- 
versation with  him  in  snatches,  of  which  this  is  the  sum  and 
substance. 

"Is  it  the  Isle  of  Man  on  the  starboard  bow,  Davy?" 

"I  darn'  say  no,  boy." 

"Lived  there  long,  Davy?" 

"Aw,  thirty  years  afore  you  were  born,  maybe." 

"Ever  known  any  of  my  countrymen  on  the  island  ?" 

"Just  one,  boy;  just  one." 

"What  was  he?" 

"A  big  chap,  six  feet  six,  if  an  inch,  and  ter'ble  strong;  and  a 
fist  at  him  like  a  sledge;  and  a  rough  enough  divil,  too,  and  ye 
darn'  spit  afore  him;  but  quiet  for  all — aw,  yes,  wonderful  quiet." 


THE   BONDMAN  75 

"Who  was  he,  Davy?" 

"A  widda  man  these  teens  of  years." 

"But  what  was  his  name?" 

"Paul  ? — no !  Peter  ? — no !  Chut,  bless  ye,  it's  clane  gone  at 
me;  but  it's  one  of  the  lot  in  the  ould  Book,  any  way." 

"Was  it  Stephen?" 

"By  gough,  yes,  and  a  middlin'  good  guess  too." 

"Stephen  what?" 

"Stephen — shoo!  it's  gone  at  me  again!  What's  that  they're 
callin'  the  ould  King  that's  going  buryin'  down  Laxey  way?" 

"Orry?" 

"Stephen  Orry,  it  is,  for  sure.  Then  it's  like  you  knew  him, 
boy?" 

"No — that  is — no,  no." 

"No  relations?" 

"No.     But  is  he  still  alive?" 

"Aw,  yes,  though.  It's  unknownced  to  me  that  he's  dead, 
anyway." 

"Where  is  he  living  now?" 

"Down  Port  Erin  way,  by  the  Sound,  some  place." 

"Davy,  do  we  put  into  the  harbor  at  Ramsey?" 

"Aw,  divil  a  chance  of  that,  boy,  with  sperrets  comin'  over  the 
side  quiet-like  in  the  night,  you  know,  eighteen-pence  a  gallon, 
and  as  much  as  you  can  drink  for  nothinV 

"How  far  do  we  lie  outside?" 

"Maybe  a  biscuit  throw  or  two.  We  never  useder  lie  farther, 
boy." 

"That's  nothing,  Davy." 

After  that  the  watch  had  been  changed,  and  then  a  strange 
thing  happened.  The  day  had  been  heavy  and  cold,  with  a  sky 
that  hung  low  over  the  sea,  and  a  .mist  that  reduced  the  visible 
globe  to  a  circle  of  fifty  fathoms  wide.  As  the  night  had  closed  in 
the  mist  had  lifted,  and  the  wind  had  risen  and  some  sheets  of 
water  had  come  combing  over  the  weather  quarter.  The  men  had 
been  turned  up  to  stow  the  yards  and  bring  the  schooner  to  the 
wind,  and  when  they  had  gone  below  they  had  been  wet  and  mis- 
erable, chewing  doggedly  at  the  tobacco  in  their  cheeks,  and  growl- 
ing at  the  darkness  of  the  forecastle,  for  the  slush-lamp  had  not  yet 
been  lighted.  And  just  then,  above  the  muttered  curses,  the  tramp- 
ing of  heavy  boots,  and  the  swish  of  oilskins  that  were  being  shaken 
to  drain  them,  there  arose  the  sweet  song  of  a  bird.  It  was 
Jason's  canary,  singing  in  the  dark  corner  of  his  bunk  a  foot  above 
his  head,  for  on  coming  below  the  lad  had  thrown  himself  down 


76  THE   BONDMAN 

in  his  wet  clothes.  The  growling  came  to  an  end,  the  shuffling 
of  feet  stopped,  and  the  men  paused  a  moment  to  listen,  and  then 
burst  into  peals  of  laughter.  But  the  bird  gave  no  heed  either  to 
their  silence  or  their  noise,  but  sang  on  with  a  full  throat.  And  the 
men  listened,  and  then  laughed  again,  and  then  suddenly  ceased  to 
laugh.  A  match  was  struck  and  the  slush-lamp  began  to  gleam 
out  over  mahogany  faces  that  looked  at  each  other  with  eyes  of 
awe.  The  men  shook  out  their  coats  and  hung  them  over  the 
stanchions.  Still  the  bird  sang  on.  It  was  uncanny,  this  strange 
singing  in  the  darkness.  The  men  charged  their  cuddies,  fired  up, 
and  crouched  together  as  they  smoked.  Still  the  bird  sang  on. 

"Och,  it's  the  divil  in  the  craythur,"  said  one;  "you  go  bail 
there's  a  storm  brewin'.  It's  just  ould  Harry  hisself  re j 'icing." 

"Then  by  St.  Patrick,  I'll  screw  the  neck  of  him,"  said  another. 

"Aisy,  man,  aisy,"  said  old  Davy;  'it's  the  lad's." 

"The  lad  be  "  said  the  other,  and  up  he  jumped.     Jason 

saw  the  man  coming  toward  his  bunk,  and  laid  hold  of  the  wrist 
of  the  arm  that  he  stretched  over  it. 

"Stop  that,"  said  Jason ;  but  the  lad  was  on  his  back,  and  in  an 
instant  the  man  had  thrown  his  body  on  top  of  him,  leaned  over 
him  and  wrenched  open  the  door  of  the  cage.  The  song  stopped; 
there  was  a  short  rustle  of  wings,  a  slight  chirp-chirp,  and  then  a 
moment's  silence,  followed  by  the  man's  light  laugh  as  he  drew  back 
with  the  little  yellow  bird  dangling  by  the  neck  from  his  black 
thumb  and  forefinger. 

But  before  the  great  hulking  fellow  had  twisted  about  to  where 
his  mates  sat  and  smoked  under  the  lamp,  Jason  had  leaped  from 
his  bunk,  stuck  his  fist  into  the  ruffian's  throat  and  pinned  him 
against  a  beam. 

-  you,"  he  cried,  thrusting  his  face  into  the  man's  face; 
"shall  I  kill  you  after  it?" 

"Help !  My  God,  help !"  the  man  gurgled  out,  with  Jason's 
knuckles  ground  hard  into  his  windpipe. 

The  others  were  in  no  hurry  to  interfere,  but  they  shambled  up 
at  length,  and  amid  shouts  and  growls  of  "Let  go,"  "Let  go  the 
hoult,"  and  "God's  sake,  slack  the  grip,"  the  two  were  parted. 
Then  the  man  who  had  killed  the  bird  went  off,  puffing  and  cursing 
between  his  chattering  teeth,  and  his  mates  began  to  laugh  at  the 
big  words  that  came  from  his  weak  stomach,  while  old  Davy  Ker- 
ruish  went  over  to  Jason  to  comfort  him. 

"Sarve  him  right,  the  craythur,"  said  Davy.  "He's  half  dead, 
but  that's  just  half  too  much  life  in  him  yet,  though.  It's  what  I've 
tould  them  times  on  times.  'Lave  him  alone,'  says  I;  'the  lad's 


THE   BONDMAN  77 

quiet,  but  he'll  be  coorse  enough  if  he's  bothered.'  And  my  gough, 
boy,  what  a  face  at  ye  yander,  when  you  were  twissin'  the  handker- 
cher  at  him !  Aw,  thinks  I,  he's  the  spittin  picsher  of  the  big  widda 
man  Orry — Stephen  Orry — brimstone  and  vinegar,  and  gunpowder 
atop  of  a  slow  fire." 

And  it  was  just  at  that  moment,  as  old  Davy  was  laughing 
through  his  yellow  eyes  and  broken  teeth  at  young  Jason,  and  the 
other  men  were  laughing  at  Jason's  adversary,  and  the  dim  fore- 
castle under  its  spluttering  slush-lamp  echoed  and  rang  with  the 
uproar,  that  a  wild  voice  came  down  from  the  deck — "Below  there ! 
All  hands  up !  Breakers  ahead !" 

Now  the  moment  when  the  watch  had  been  changed  had  been 
the  very  moment  when  Stephen  Orry  had  run  down  the  lamp,  so 
that  neither  by  the  Manxman  who  gave  up  the  helm  nor  by  the 
Irishman  who  took  it  had  the  light  been  missed  when  it  fell  into  the 
sea.  And  the  moment  when  Stephen  Orry  shouted  to  the  schooner 
to  warn  it  had  been  the  moment  when  the  muffled  peals  of  laughter 
at  the  bird's  strange  song  had  come  up  from  the  watch  below  in 
the  forecastle.  The  wind  had  whistled  among  the  sheets,  and  the 
flying  spray  had  smitten  the  men's  faces,  but  though  the  mist  had 
lifted,  the  sky  had  still  hung  low  and  dark,  showing  neither  moon 
nor  stars,  nor  any  hint  of  the  land  that  lay  ahead.  But  straight 
for  the  land  the  vessel  had  been  driving  in  the  darkness,  under  the 
power  of  wind  and  tide.  After  a  time  the  helmsman  had  sighted 
a  solitary  light  close  in  on  the  lee  bow.  "Point  of  Ayre,"  he 
thought,  and  luffed  off  a  little,  intending  to  beat  down  the  middle 
of  the  bay.  It  had  been  the  light  on  the  jetty  at  Ramsey;  and  the 
little  town  behind  it,  with  its  back  to  the  sea,  lay  dark  and  asleep, 
for  the  night  was  then  well  worn  toward  midnight.  After  that  the 
helmsman  had  sighted  two  stronger  lights  beyond.  "Ramsey,"  he 
thought,  and  put  his  helm  aport.  But  suddenly  the  man  on  the 
lookout  had  shouted,  "Breakers  ahead,"  and  the  cry  had  been  sent 
down  the  forecastle. 

In  an  instant  all  hands  were  on  deck,  amid  the  distraction  and 
uproar,  the  shouting  and  blind  groping  of  the  cruel  darkness. 
Against  the  dark  sky  the  yet  darker  land  could  now  be  plainly 
seen,  and  a  strong  tide  was  driving  the  vessel  on  to  it.  The  helm 
was  put  hard  to  starboard,  and  the  schooner's  head  began  to  pay 
off  toward  the  wind.  Then  all  at  once  it  was  seen  that  right  under 
the  vessel's  bow  some  black  thing  lay  just  above  the  level  of  the 
sea,  with  a  fringe  of  white  foam  around  it. 

"Davy,  what  do  you  make  of  it?"  shouted  the  skipper. 

"Lord-a-massy,  it's  the  Carick,"  screamed  Davy. 


78  THE   BONDMAN 

"Let  go  the  anchor,"  roared  the  skipper. 

But  it  was  too  late  even  for  that  last  refuge.  At  the  next  mo- 
ment the  schooner  struck  heavily;  she  was  on  the  reef  in  Ramsey 
Bay,  and  pitching  miserably  with  every  heave  of  the  sea. 

The  two  bright  lights  that  led  the  vessel  to  her  ruin  came  from 
the  two  little  bays  that  lie  under  Maughold  Head.  The  light  in 
Port-y-Vullin  was  in  the  hut  of  Stephen  Orry,  who  had  lit  his 
lamp  and  placed  it  in  the  window  when  he  went  out  to  bid  fare- 
well to  Michael  Sunlocks,  thinking  no  evil  thereby  to  any  man,  but 
only  that  it  would  guide  him  home  again  when  he  should  return  in 
the  boat.  The  light  in  Port  Lague  was  from  the  cottage  of  three 
old  net  weavers,  who  had  lived  there  without  woman  or  girl,  or 
chick  or  child,  through  more  than  forty  years.  Two  of  the  three  were 
brothers,  Danny  and  Jemmy  Kewley,  both  over  seventy  years  old, 
and  their  housemate,  who  was  ninety,  and  had  been  a  companion 
of  their  father,  was  known  as  Juan  McLady.  Danny  and  Jemmy 
still  worked  at  the  looms  year  in  and  year  out,  every  working  hour 
of  the  day  and  night,  and  Juan,  long  past  other  labor,  cooked  and 
sewed  and  cleaned  for  them.  All  three  had  grown  dim  of  sight, 
and  now  groped  about  like  three  old  earthworms.  Every  year  for 
five  years  past  they  had  needed  an  extra  candle  to  work  by,  so  that 
eight  tallow  dips,  made  in  their  own  iron  mold,  swung  from  the 
open  roof  rafters  over  the  meshes  on  that  night  when  the  "Peveril" 
struck  on  the  Carick. 

It  was  supper-time,  though  old  Danny  and  old  Jemmy  were  still 
at  the  looms.  Old  Juan  had  washed  out  a  bowl  of  potatoes,  filled  the 
pot  with  them,  hung  them  on  the  chimney  hook  and  stirred  the 
peats.  Then  to  make  them  boil  the  quicker  he  had  gone  out  with 
the  tongs  to  the  side  of  the  house  for  some  dry  gorse  from  the 
gorse  heap.  While  there  he  had  peered  through  the  darkness  of 
the  bay  for  the  light  on  the  Point  of  Ayre,  and  had  missed  it,  and 
on  going  back  he  had  said : 

"It's  out  again.  That's  the  third  time  inside  a  month.  I'll  go 
bail  something  will  happen  yet." 

He  had  got  no  answer,  and  so  sat  down  on  the  three-legged 
stool  to  feed  the  fire  with  gorse  lifted  on  the  tongs.  When  the 
potatoes  had  boiled  he  had  carried  them  to  the  door  to  drain  them, 
and  then,  with  the  click-clack  of  the  levers  behind  him,  he  had 
thought  he  heard,  over  the  deep  boom  and  plash  of  the  sea  in 
front,  a  voice  like  a  cry.  Going  indoors  he  had  said :  "Plague  on 
the  water-bailiff  and  commissioners  and  kays  and  councils.  I'll 
go  bail  there's  smuggling  going  on  under  their  very  noses.  I'd 
have  the  law  on  the  lot  of  them,  so  I  would." 


THE   BONDMAN  79 

Old  Danny  and  old  Jemmy  knew  the  temper  of  their  house- 
mate— that  he  was  never  happy  save  when  he  had  somebody  to 
higgle  with — so  they  paid  no  heed  to  his  mutterings.  But  when 
Juan,  having  set  the  potatoes  to  steam  with  a  rag  spread  over 
them,  went  out  for  the  salt  herrings,  to  where  they  hung  to  dry  on 
a  stick  against  the  sunny  side  of  the  porch,  he  was  sure  that  above 
the  click  of  the  levers,  the  boom  and  plash  of  the  sea,  and  the 
whistle  of  the  wind,  he  could  hear  a  clamorous  shout  of  many 
voices,  like  a  wild  cry  of  distress.  Then  he  hobbled  back  with  a 
wizened  face  of  deadly  pallor  and  told  what  he  had  heard,  and  the 
shuttles  were  stopped,  and  there  was  silence  in  the  little  house. 

"It  went  by  me  same  as  the  wind,"  said  old  Juan. 

"Maybe  it  was  the  nightman,"  said  old  Danny. 

At  that  old  Jemmy  nodded  his  head  very  gravely,  and  old  Juan 
held  on  to  the  lever  handles;  and  through  those  precious  minutes 
when  the  crew  of  the  schooner  were  fighting  in  the  grip  of  death 
in  the  darkness,  these  three  old  men,  their  nearest  fellow  creatures, 
half  dead,  half  blind,  were  held  in  the  grip  of  superstitious  fears. 

"There  again,"  cried  old  Juan ;  and  through  the  door  that  he 
had  left  open  the  cry  came  in  above  roar  of  wind  and  sea. 

"It's  men  that's  yander,"  said  old  Jemmy. 

"Ay,"  said  old  Danny. 

"Maybe  it's  a  ship  on  the  Carick,"  said  old  Juan. 

"Let's  away  and  look,"  said  old  Jemmy. 

And  then  the  three  helpless  old  men,  trembling  and  affrighted, 
straining  their  dim  eyes  to  see  and  their  deaf  ears  to  hear,  and 
clinging  to  each  other's  hands  like  little  children,  groped  their 
slow  way  to  the  beach.  Down  there  the  cries  were  louder  than 
they  had  been  on  the  brows  above. 

"Mercy  me,  let's  away  to  Lague  for  the  boys,"  said  old  Juan ; 
and  leaving  behind  them  the  voices  that  cried  for  help,  the  old 
men  trudged  and  stumbled  through  the  dark  lanes. 

Lague  was  asleep,  but  the  old  men  knocked,  and  the  windows 
were  opened  and  night-capped  heads  thrust  through.  Very  soon 
the  house  and  courtyard  echoed  with  many  footsteps,  and  the  bell 
over  the  porch  rang  out  through  the  night,  to  call  up  the  neighbors 
far  and  near. 

Ross  and  Stean  and  Thurstan  were  the  first  to  reach  the  shore, 
and  there  they  found  the  crew  of  the  "Peveril"  landed — every  man 
safe  and  sound,  but  drenching  wet  with  the  water  they  had  passed 
through  to  save  their  lives.  The  schooner  was  still  on  the  Carick, 
much  injured  already,  plunging  with  every  hurling  sea  on  to  the 
sharp  teeth  of  the  shoal  beneath  her,  and  going  to  pieces  fast. 


80  THE   BONDMAN 

And  now  that  help  seemed  to  be  no  more  needed  the  people  came 
flocking  down  in  crowds — the  Fairbrothers,  with  Greeba,  and  all 
their  men  and  maids,  Kane  Wade,  the  Methodist,  with  Chaise 
A'Killey,  who  had  been  sleeping  the  night  at  his  house,  Nary 
Crowe,  and  Matt  Mylechreest  and  old  Coobragh.  And  while  Davy 
Kerruish  shook  the  salt  water  from  his  sou'wester,  and  growled  out 
to  them  with  an  oath  that  they  had  been  a  plaguy  long  time  coming, 
and  the  skipper  bemoaned  the  loss  of  his  ship,  and  the  men  of  their 
kits,  Chaise  was  down  on  his  knees  on  the  beach,  lifting  up  his 
crazy,  cracked  voice  in  loud  thanksgiving.  At  that  the  growling 
ended,  and  then  Asher  Fairbrother,  who  had  been  the  last  to  come, 
invited  the  ship-broken  men  to  Lague,  and  all  together  they  turned 
to  follow  him. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  cry  was  heard  above  the  tumult  of  the 
sea.  It  was  a  wild  shriek  that  seemed  to  echo  in  the  lowering 
dome  of  the  sky.  Greeba  was  the  first  to  hear  it. 

"There  was  some  one  left  on  the  ship !"  she  cried. 

The  men  stopped  and  looked  into  each  other's  faces  one 
by  one. 

"No,"  said  the  skipper,  "we're  all  here.'" 

The  cry  was  heard  once  more;  it  was  a  voice  of  fearful  agony. 

"That's  from  Port-y-Vullin,"  said  Asher  Fairbrother:  and 
to  Port-y-Vullin  they  all  hastened  off,  following  the  way  of  the 
beach.  There  it  was  easy  to  see  from  whence  the  cries  had  come. 
An  open  fishing  boat  was  laboring  in  the  heavy  sea,  her  stern  half 
prancing  like  an  unbroken  horse,  and  her  forepart  jammed  between 
two  horns  of  the  rock  that  forks  out  into  the  sea  from  Maughold 
Head.  She  had  clearly  been  making  for  the  little  bay,  when  she 
had  fallen  foul  of  the  shoal  that  lies  to  the  north  of  it.  Dark  as  the 
night  was,  the  sea  and  sky  were  lighter  than  the  black  headland, 
and  the  figure  of  a  man  in  the  boat  could  be  seen  very  plainly. 
He  was  trying  to  unship  the  mast,  that  he  might  lighten  the  little 
craft  and  ease  her  off  the  horns  that  held  her  like  a  vise,  but  every 
fresh  wave  drove  her  head  deeper  into  the  cleft,  and  at  each  vain 
effort  he  shouted  again  and  again  in  rage  and  fear. 

A  boat  was  lying  high  and  dry  on  the  shore.  Two  of  the  Fair- 
brothers,  Stean  and  Thurstan,  ran  it  into  the  water,  jumped  into 
it,  and  pushed  off.  But  the  tide  was  still  making,  the  sea  was 
running  high,  a  low  ground  swell  was  scooping  up  the  shingle  and 
flinging  it  through  the  ftir  like  sleet,  and  in  an  instant  the  boat  was 
cast  back  on  the  shore.  "No  use,  man,"  shouted  many  voices. 

But  Greeba  cried,  "Help,  help,  help !"  She  seemed  to  be  beside 
herself  with  suspense.  Some  vague  fear,  beyond  the  thought  of  a 


THE   BONDMAN  81 

man's  life  in  peril,  seemed  to  possess  her.  Did  she  know  what  it 
was?  She  did  not.  She  dared  not  fix  her  mind  upon  it.  She  was 
afraid  of  her  own  fear.  But,  low  down  within  her,  and  ready  at 
any  moment  to  leap  to  her  throat,  was  the  dim  ghost  of  a  dread  that 
he  who  was  in  the  boat,  and  in  danger  of  his  life  on  the  rock,  might 
be  very  near  and  dear  to  her.  With  her  hood  fallen  back  from 
her  head  to  her  shoulders,  she  ran  to  and  fro  among  the  men  on 
the  beach,  crying:  "He  will  be  lost.  Will  no  one  save  him?" 

But  the  other  women  clung  to  the  men,  and  the  men  shook 
their  heads  and  answered:  "He's  past  saving,"  and  "We've  got 
wives  and  childers  lookin'  to  us,  miss — and  what's  the  use  of  throw- 
ing your  life  away?" 

Still  the  girl  cried  "Help,"  and  then  a  young  fellow  pushed 
through  to  where  she  stood,  and  said:  "He's  too  near  for  us  to 
stand  here  and  see  him  die." 

"Oh,  God  bless  and  keep  you  forever  and  ever,"  cried  Greeba; 
and,  lifted  completely  out  of  all  self-control,  she  threw  her  arms 
about  the  young  man  and  kissed  him  fervently  on  the  cheek.  It 
was  Jason.  He  had  found  a  rope  and  coiled  one  end  of  it  about  his 
waist,  and  held  the  other  end  in  his  hand.  The  touch  of  Greeba's 
quivering  lips  had  been  as  fire  to  him.  "Lay  hold,"  he  cried,  and 
threw  the  loose  end  of  the  rope  to  Thurstan  Fairbrother.  At  the 
next  moment  he  was  breast-high  in  the  sea.  The  man  must  have 
seen  him  coming,  for  the  loud  clamor  ceased. 

"Brave  lad !"  said  Greeba,  in  a  deep  whisper. 

"Brave  is  it?    It's  mad,  I'm  calling  it,"  said  old  Davy. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  the  skipper. 

"The  young  Icelander,"  said  Davy. 

"Not  the  lad  Jason?—" 

"Aw,  yes,  though — Jason — the  gawk,  as  they're  saying.  Poor 
lad,  there's  a  heart  at  him." 

The  people  held  their  breath.  Greeba  covered  her  eyes  with 
her  hands,  and  felt  an  impulse  to  scream.  Wading  with  strong 
strides,  and  swimming  with  yet  stronger  strokes,  Jason  reached 
the  boat.  A  few  minutes  afterward  he  was  back  on  the  shore, 
dragging  the  man  after  him. 

The  man  lay  insensible  in  Jason's  arms,  bleeding  from  a  wound 
in  the  head.  Greeba  stooped  quickly  to  peer  into  his  face  in  the 
darkness,  and  then  rose  up  and  turned  away  with  a  sigh  that  was 
like  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"He's  done  for,"  said  Jason,  putting  him  down. 

"Who  is  he  ?"  «ried  a  score  of  voices. 

"God  knows;  fetch  a  lantern,"  said  Jason. 


82  THE   BONDMAN 

"See,  there's  a  light  in  old  Orry's  hut  yonder.  Let's  away  there 
with  him.  It  will  be  the  nearest  place,"  said  Kane  Wade. 

Then  shoulder-high  they  raised  the  insensible  man  and  carried 
him  to  Stephen  Orry's  hut. 

"What  a  weight  he  is !"  -said  Kane  Wade.  "Slip  along,  some- 
body, and  get  the  door  opened." 

Chaise  A'Killey  ran  on  ahead. 

"Where's  Stephen,  to-night,  that  he's  not  out  with  us  at  work 
same  as  this?"  said  Matt  Mylechreest. 

"He's  been  down  here  all  week,"  puffed  Nary  Crowe. 

In  another  minute  Chaise  was  knocking  at  the  door,  and  call- 
ing loudly  as  he  knocked: 

"Stephen!     Stephen!     Stephen  Orry!" 

There  came  no  answer,  and  he  knocked  again  and  called  yet 
louder : 

"Stephen,  let  us  in.     There's  a  man  here  dying." 

But  no  one  stirred  within  the  house.     "He's  asleep,"  said  one. 

"Stephen — Stephen  Orry — Stephen  Orry — wake  up,  man — can't 
you  hear  us  ?  Have  you  no  bowels,  that  you'd  keep  the  man  out  ?" 

"He's  not  at  home — force  the  door,"  Kane  Wade  shouted. 

One  blow  was  enough.  The  door  was  fastened  only  by  a  hemp 
rope  wound  around  a  hasp  on  the  outside,  and  it  fell  open  with 
a  crash.  Then  the  men  with  the  burden  staggered  into  the  house. 
They  laid  the  insensible  man  on  the  floor,  and  there  the  light  of 
the  lamp  that  burned  in  the  window  fell  upon  his  face. 

"Lord-a-massy !"  they  cried,  "it's  Stephen  Orry  hisself." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    END    OF    ORRY 

WHEN  the  tumult  was  over,  and  all  lives  appeared  to  be  saved, 
and  nothing  seemed  lost  save  the  two  vessels — the  schooner 
and  the  yawl,  which  still  rose  and  fell  on  the  Carick  and 
the  forked  reef  of  the  head — and  the  people  separated,  and  the  three 
old  net  weavers  straggled  back  to  their  home,  the  crew  of  the  "Pev- 
eril"  went  off  with  the  Fairbrothers  to  Lague.  Great  preparations 
were  already  afoot  there,  for  Asher  had  sent  on  a  message  ahead 
of  them,  and  the  maids  were  bustling  about,  the  fire  was  rekindled 
in  the  kitchen,  and  the  kettle  was  singing  merrily.  And  first  there 
was  a  mouthful  of  grog,  steaming  hot,  for  every  drenched  and 
dripping  seaman,  with  a  taste  of  toast  to  sweeten  it.  Then  there 


THE   BONDMAN  83 

was  getting  all  the  men  into  a  change  of  dry  clothes  in  order  that 
they  might  wait  for  a  bite  of  supper,  and  until  beds  were  shuffled 
about  and  shake-downs  fetched  out.  And  high  was  the  sport  and 
great  the  laughter  at  the  queer  shifts  the  house  was  put  to  that  it 
might  find  clean  rigging  for  so  many,  on  even  so  short  a  cruise. 
When  the  six  Fairbrothers  had  lent  all  the  change  they  had  of 
breeches  and  shirts,  the  maids  had  to  fish  out  from  their  trunks  a 
few  petticoats  and  some  gowns,  for  the  sailors  still  unfurnished. 
But  the  full  kit  was  furnished  out  at  length,  and  when  the  ship's 
company  mustered  down  in  the  kitchen  from  the  rooms  above,  all 
in  their  motley  color  and  queer  mixture  of  garments,  with  their 
grizzled  faces  wiped  dry,  but  their  hair  still  wet  and  lank  and 
glistening,  no  one  could  have  guessed,  from  the  loud  laughter 
wherewith  they  looked  each  other  over,  that  only  an  hour  before 
Death  itself  so  nearly  tricked  them.  Like  noisy  children  let 
out  of  school  they  all  were,  now  that  they  were  snugly  housed ;  for 
a  seagoing  man,  however  he  may  be  kicked  about  on  the  sea,  is 
not  used  to  be  downhearted  on  the  land.  And  if  two  or  three  of 
the  company  continued  to  complain  of  their  misfortunes,  tneir 
growlings  but  lent  zest  to  the  merriment  of  the  rest.  So  that  they 
laughed  loud  when  old  Davy,  cutting  a  most  ridiculous  figure  in  a 
linsey-woolsey  petticoat  and  a  linen  bodice  that  would  not  meet 
over  his  hairy  chest,  began  to  grumble  that  he  had  followed  the 
sea  forty  years  and  never  been  wrecked  before,  as  if  that  were 
the  best  of  all  reasons  why  he  should  not  come  by  such  rough 
harm  now,  and  a  base  advantage  taken  of  him  by  Providence 
in  his  old  age. 

And  louder  still  they  laughed  at  the  skipper  himself  when  still 
sorely  troubled  by  his  evil  luck,  he  wanted  to  know  what  all  their 
thanking  God  was  for,  since  his  good  ship  lay  a  rotten  hulk  on  a 
cruel  reef ;  and  if  it  was  so  very  good  of  Providence  to  let  them  off 
that  rock,  it  would  have  been  better  far  not  to  let  them  on  to  it. 
And  loudest  of  all  they  laughed,  and  laughed  again,  when  an  Irish 
sailor  told  them,  with  all  his  wealth  of  brogue,  of  a  prayer  that  he 
had  overheard  old  Davy  pray  while  they  hung  helpless  on  the  rock, 
thinking  never  to  escape  from  it.  "Oh,  Lord,  only  save  my  life 
this  once,  and  I'll  smuggle  no  more,"  the  Manxman  had  cried: 
"and  it's  not  for  myself  but  ould  Betty  I  ax  it,  for  Thou  knowest 
she's  ten  years  dead  in  Maughold  churchyard  with  twenty  rolls  of 
good  Scotch  cloth  in  the  grave  atop  of  her.  But  I  had  nowhere 
else  to  put  it,  and,  good  Lord,  only  remember  the  last  day,  and 
save  my  life  till  I  dig  it  up  from  off  of  her  chest,  for  she  was 
never  a  powerful  woman." 


84  THE    BONDMAN 

And  the  danger  being  over,  neither  Davy  nor  the  skipper  took 
it  ill  that  the  men  should  make  sport  of  their  groanings,  for  they 
laughed  with  the  rest,  and  together  they  waked  a  most  reckless 
uproar. 

All  this  while,  though  Mrs.  Fairbrother  had  not  left  her  bed- 
room, the  girls'  feet  had  been  jigging  about  merrily  over  the 
white  holy-stoned  floor  to  get  some  supper  spread,  and  Greeba, 
having  tapped  Jason  on  the  shoulder,  had  carried  him  off  quietly 
to  the  door  of  the  parlor,  and  pushed  him  in  there  while  she  ran 
to  get  a  light,  for  the  room  was  dark.  It  was  also  cool,  with  crocks 
of  milk  standing  for  cream,  and  basins  of  eggs  and  baskets  of 
new-made  cheese.  And  when  she  returned  with  the  candle  in  one 
hand,  shaded  by  the  luminous  fingers  of  the  other,  and  its  bright 
light  on  her  comely  face,  she  would  have  loaded  him  with  every 
good  thing  the  house  contained — collared  head,  and  beef,  and  bin- 
jeen  and  Manx  jough,  and  the  back  of  the  day's  pudding.  Nothing 
he  would  have,  however,  save  one  thing,  and  that  made  great  sport 
between  them :  for  it  was  an  egg,  and  he  ate  it  raw,  shell  included, 
crunching  it  like  an  apple.  At  that  sight  she  made  pretence  to  shud- 
der. And  then  she  laughed  like  a  bell,  saying  he  was  a  wild  man 
indeed,  and  she  had  thought  so  when  she  first  set  eyes  on  him  on 
the  shore,  and  already  she  was  more  than  half  afraid  of  him. 

Then  they  laughed  again,  she  very  slyly,  he  very  bashfully, 
and  while  her  bright  eyes  shone  upon  him  she  told  him  how  like  he 
was,  now  that  she  saw  him  in  the  light,  to  some  one  else  she  knew 
of.  He  asked  her  who  that  was,  and  she  answered  warily,  with 
something  between  a  smile  and  a  blush,  that  it  was  one  who  had 
left  the  island  that  very  night. 

By  this  time  the  clatter  of  dishes  mingled  with  the  laughter 
and  merry  voices  that  came  from  the  other  side  of  the  hall,  and 
the  two  went  back  to  the  kitchen. 

Asher  Fairbrother,  who  had  been  dozing  like  a  sheep  dog  in 
the  ingle,  was  then  rising  to  his  feet,  and  saying:  "And  now  for 
supper;  and  let  it  be  country  fashion,  girls,  at  this  early  hour  of 
the  morning."' 

Country  fashion  indeed  it  was,  with  the  long  oak  table  scrubbed 
white  like  a  butcher's  board,  and  three  pyramids  of  potatoes,  boiled 
in  their  jackets,  tossed  out  at  its  head  and  foot  and  middle,  three 
huge  blocks  of  salt,  each  with  its  wooden  spoon,  laid  down  at  the 
same  spaces,  and  a  plate  with  a  boiled  herring  and  a  basin  of  last 
night's  milk  before  every  guest.  And  the  seamen  shambled  into 
their  places,  any  man  anywhere,  all  growling  or  laughing,  or  both ; 
and  the  maids  flipped  about  very  lightly,  rueing  nothing,  amid  so 


THE   BONDMAN  85 

many  fresh  men's  faces,  of  the  strange  chance  that  had  fetched 
them  out  of  their  beds  for  work  at  double  tides. 

And  seeing  the  two  coming  back  together  from  the  parlor,  the 
banter  of  the  seamen  took  another  turn,  leaving  old  Davy  for  young 
Jason,  who  was  reminded  of  the  kiss  he  had  earned  on  the  beach, 
and  asked  if  ever  before  a  sailor  lad  had  got  the  like  from  a  lady 
without  look  or  longing.  Such  was  the  flow  of  their  banter  until 
Greeba,  being  abashed,  and  too  hard  set  to  control  the  rich  color 
that  mounted  to  her  cheeks,  fled  laughing  from  the  room  to  hide  her 
confusion. 

But  no  rudeness  was  intended  by  the  rude  seadogs,  and  no  of- 
fense was  taken ;  for  in  that  first  hour,  after  they  had  all  been  face 
to  face  with  death,  the  barrier  of  manners  stood  for  nothing  to 
master  or  man  or  mistress  or  maid. 

But  when  the  rough  jest  seemed  to  have  gone  far  enough,  and 
Jason,  who  had  laughed  at  first,  had  begun  to  hang  his  head — 
sitting  just  where  Stephen  Orry  had  sat  when,  long  years  before, 
he  took  refuge  in  that  house  from  the  four  blue- jackets  in  pursuit 
of  him — Old  Davy  Kerruish  got  up  and  pulled  his  grizzled  forelock, 
and  shouted  to  him  above  the  tumult  of  the  rest: 

"Never  mind  the  loblolly-boys,  lad,"  he  cried,  "it's  just  jealous 
they  are,  being  so  long  out  of  practice;  and  there's  one  thing  you 
can  say,  anyway,  and  that's  this — the  first  thing  you  did  on  set- 
ting foot  in  the  Isle  of  Man  was  to  save  the  life  of  a  Manxman." 

"Then  here's  to  his  right  good  health,"  cried  Asher  Fairbrother, 
with  his  mouth  in  a  basin  of  milk;  and  in  that  brave  liquor, .with 
three  times  three  and  the  thud  and  thung  of  twenty  hard  fists  on  the 
table,  the  rough  toast  was  called  round. 

And  in  the  midst  of  it,  when  Greeba,  having  conquered  her  maiden 
shame,  had  crept  back  to  the  kitchen,  and  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  aroused 
at  length  by  the  lightsome  hubbub,  had  come  down  to  put  an  end 
to  it,  the  door  of  the  porch  opened,  and  crazy  old  Chaise  A'Killey 
stood  upon  the  threshold,  very  pale,  panting  for  breath,  and  with 
a  ghastly  light  in  his  sunken  eyes,  and  cried :  "He's  dying.  Where's 
the  young  man  that  fetched  him  ashore?  He's  crying  out  for  him, 
and  I'm  to  fetch  him  along  with  me  straight  away." 

Jason  rose  instantly.  "I'll  go,"  he  said,  and  he  snatched  up 
a  cap. 

"And  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Greeba,  and  she  caught  up  a  shawl. 

Not  a  word  more  was  said,  and  at  the  next  instant,  before  the 
others  had  recovered  from  their  surprise,  or  the  laughter  and 
shouting  were  yet  quite  gone  from  their  lips,  the  door  had  closed 
again  and  the  three  were  gone. 


86  THE   BONDMAN 

Chaise,  in  his  eagerness  to  be  back,  strode  on  some  paces  ahead 
in  the  darkness,  and  Jason  and  Greeba  walked  together. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  Jason.    "Do  you  know?'" 

"No,"  said  Greeba.  "Chaise !"  she  cried,  but  the  old  man,  with 
his  face  down,  trudged  along  as  one  who  heard  nothing.  She 
tripped  up  to  him,  and  Jason  walking  behind  heard  the  sound  of 
muttered  words  between  them,  but  caught  nothing  of  what  passed. 
Dropping  back  to  Jason's  side,  the  girl  said :  "It's  a  man  whom  no- 
body holds  of  much  account,  poor  soul." 

"What  is  he?"  said  Jason. 

"A  smuggler,  people  say,  or  perhaps  worse.  His  wife  has  been 
long  years  dead,  and  he  has  lived  alone  ever  since,  shunned  by 
most  folks,  and  by  his  own  son  among  others.  It  was  his  son  who 
sailed  to  Iceland  to-night." 

"Iceland?    Did  you  say  Iceland?" 

"Yes,  Iceland.  It  is  your  own  country,  is  it  not  ?  But  he  hadn't 
lived  with  his  father  since  he  was  a  child.  He  was  brought  up  by 
my  own  dear  father.  It  was  he  who  seemed  to  be  so  like  to  you." 

Jason  stopped  suddenly  in  the  dark  lane. 

"What's  the  name?"  he  asked,  hoarsely. 

"The  son's  name?    Michael." 

"Michael  what?" 

"Michael  Sunlocks." 

Jason  drew  a  long  breath,  and  strode  on  without  a  word  more. 
Very  soon  they  were  outside  the  little  house  in  Port-y-Vullin. 

Chaise  was  there  before  them,  and  he  stood  with  the  door  ajar. 

"Whist!"  the  old  man  whispered.  "He's  ebbing  fast.  He's 
going  out  with  the  tide.  Listen  !" 

They  crept  in  on  tiptoe,  but  there  was  small  need  for  quiet. 
The  place  was  a  scene  of  direful  uproar  and  most  gruesome  spec- 
tacle. It  was  all  but  as  thronged  of  people  as  it  had  been  nineteen 
years  before,  on  the  day  of  Liza  Killey's  wedding.  On  the  table, 
the  form,  the  three-legged  stool,  and  in  the  chimney  corner,  they 
sat  together  cheek-by-jowl,  with  eyes  full  of  awe,  most  of  them 
silent  or  speaking  low  behind  their  hands.  On  the  bed  the  injured 
man  lay  and  tossed  in  a  strong  delirium.  The  wet  clothes  wherein 
he  had  passed  through  the  sea  had  been  torn  off,  his  body  wrapped 
in  a  gray  blanket,  and  the  wound  on'his  head  bandaged  with  a 
cloth.  His  lips  were  discolored,  his  cheeks  were  white,  and  his 
hair  was  damp  with  the  sweat  that  ran  in  big  drops  to  his  face  and 
neck.  At  his  feet  Nary  Crowe  stood,  holding  a  horn  cup  of  brandy, 
and  by  his  head  knelt  Kane  Wade,  the  Methodist,  praying  in  a  loud 


THE   BONDMAN  87 

"God  bring  him  to  Thy  repentance,"  cried  Kane  Wade;  "re- 
store him  to  the  joy  of  Thy  salvation.  The  pains  of  hell  have  got- 
ten hold  of  him.  Hark  how  the  devil  is  tearing  him.  He  is  like  to 
the  man  with  the  unclean  spirit,  who  had  hte  dwelling  among  the 
tombs.  The  devil  is  gotten  into  him.  But  out  wi'  thee,  Satan,  and 
no  more  two  words  about  it !  Thanks  be  unto  God,  we  can  wrestle 
with  thee  in  prayer.  Gloom  at  us,  Satan,  but  never  will  we  rise 
from  our  knees  until  God  hath  given  us  the  victory  over  thee,  lest 
our  brother  fall  into  the  jaws  of  hell,  and  our  own  souls  be  not 
free  from  bloodguiltiness." 

In  this  strain  he  prayed,  shouting  at  the  full  pitch  of  the  vast 
bellows  of  his  lungs,  and  loudest  of  all  when  the  delirium  of  the 
sick  man  was  strongest,  until  his  voice  failed  him  from  sheer  ex- 
haustion, and  then  his  lips  still  moved,  and  he  mumbled  hoarsely 
beneath  his  breath. 

Jason  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  looked  on  in  his 
great  stature  over  the  heads  of  the  people  about  him,  while  Greeba, 
with  quiet  grace  and  gentle  manners,  thinned  the  little  hut  of  some 
of  the  many  with-  whom  the  dense  air  smoked  and  reeked.  After 
that  she  lifted  the  poor  restless,  tumbling,  wet  head  from  its  hard 
pillow,  and  put  it  to  rest  on  her  own  soft  arm,  with  her  cool 
palm  to  the  throbbing  brow,  and  then  she  damped  the  lips  with  the 
brandy  from  Nary  Crowe's  cup.  This  she  did,  and  more  than  this, 
seeming  to  cast  away  from  her  in  a  moment  all  her  lightness,  her 
playfulness,  her  bounding  happy  spirits,  and  in  the  hour  of  need 
to  find  such  tender  offices  come  to  her,  as  to  all  true  women,  like 
another  sense. 

And  presently  the  delirium  abated,  the  weary  head  lay  still, 
the  bleared  eyes  opened,  the  discolored  lips  parted,  and  the  dying 
man  tried  to  speak.  But  before  ever  a  word  could  come,  the  change 
was  seen  by  Kane  Wade,  who  cried:  "Thank  God,  he  has  found 
peace.  Thank  the  Lord,  who  has  given  us  the  victory.  Satan  is 
driven  out  of  him.  Mercy  there  is  for  the  vilest  of  sinners."  And 
on  the  top  of  that  wild  shout  old  Chaise  struck  up,  without  warning, 
and  in  the  craziest  screech  that  ever  came  from  human  throat,  a 
rugged  hymn  of  triumph,  wherein  all  the  lines  were  one  line  and 
all  the  notes  one  note,  but  telling  how  the  Lord  was  King  over 
death  and  hell  and  all  the  devils. 

Again  and  again  he  sang  a  verse  of  it,  going  faster  at  every 
repetition,  and  the  others  joined  him,  struggling  to  keep  pace 
with  him:  and  all  but  Greeba,  who  tried  by  vain  motions  to  stop 
the  tumult,  and  Jason,  who  looked  down  at  the  strange  scene  with 
eyes  full  of  wonder.  At  last  the  mad  chorus  of  praise  came  to  an 


88  THE    BONDMAN 

end,  and  the  sick  man  said,  casting  his  weak  eyes  into  the  faces 
about  him,  "Has  he  come?" 

"He  is  here,"  whispered  Greeba,  and  she  motioned  to  Jason. 

The  lad  pushed  tWrough  to  the  bedside,  and  then  for  the  first 
time  he  came  face  to  face  with  Stephen  Orry. 

Did  any  voice,  unheard  of  the  others,  cry  in  his  ear  at  that  mo- 
ment, "Jason,  Jason,  this  is  he  whom  you  have  crossed  the  seas 
to  slay,  and  he  has  sent  for  you  to  bless  you,  for  the  last  sands  of 
his  life  are  running  out"  ? 

"Leave  us  alone  together,"  said  Stephen  Orry;  and  Greeba, 
after  beating  out  his  pillow  and  settling  his  head  on  it,  was  about 
to  move  away,  when  he  whispered:  "Not  you,"  and  held  her 
back. 

Then  with  one  accord  the  others  called  on  him  not  to  tarry 
over  carnal  thoughts,  for  his  soul  was  passing  through  dark  waters, 
and  he  should  never  take  rest  until  he  had  cast  anchor  after  a 
troublous  voyage. 

"Get  religion,"  cried  Kane  Wade.  "Lay  hoult  of  a  free  salva- 
tion," cried  old  Chaise.  "All  flesh  is  as  grass,"  cried  Matt  Myle- 
chreest.  "Pray  without  ceasing,"  they  all  cried  together,  with 
much  besides  in  the  same  wild  strain. 

"I  can  not  pray,"  the  sick  man  muttered. 

"Then  we'll  pray  for  you,  mate,"  shouted  Kane  Wade. 

"Ah,  pray,  pray,  pray,"  mumbled  Stephen  Orry,  "but  it's  no 
good ;  it's  too  late,  too  late." 

"Now  is  the  'pointed  time,"  shouted  Kane  Wade.  "The  Lord 
can  save  to  the  uttermost  the  worst  sinner  of  us  all." 

"If  I'm  a  sinner,  let  me  not  be  a  coward  in  my  sins,"  said 
Stephen  Orry.  "Have  pity  on  me  and  leave  me." 

But  Kane  Wade  went  on  to  tell  the  story  of  his  own  conversion : 
It  was  on  a  Saturday  night  of  the  mackerel  season  down  at  Kin- 
sale.  The  conviction  had  been  borne  in  upon  him  that  if  he  did 
not  hear  the  pardoning  voice  before  the  clock  struck  twelve,  he 
would  be  damned  to  all  eternity.  When  the  clock  began  to  warn 
for  midnight  the  hair  of  his  flesh  stood  up,  for  he  was  still  un- 
saved. But  before  it  had  finished  striking  the  Saviour  was  his,  and 
he  was  rejoicing  in  a  blessed  salvation. 

"How  can  you  torture  a  poor  dying  man?"  muttered  Stephen 
Orry. 

"Call  on  the  Lord,  mate,"  shouted  Kane  Wade,  "  'Lord,  I  belave ; 
help  Thou  my  unbelafe.'  " 

"I've  something  to  do,  and  the  pains  of  death  have  hold  of  me," 
muttered  Stephen  Orry. 


THE   BONDMAN  89 

"He  parthoned  the  thafe  on  the  cross,"  cried  old  Chaise,  "and 
he's  gotten  parthon  left  for  you." 

"Cruel,  cruel !  Have  you  no  pity  for  a  wretched  dying  man  ?" 
mumbled  Stephen  Orry. 

"Ye've  not  lived  a  right  life,  brother,"  cried  Kane  Wade,  "and 
ye've  been  ever  wake  in  yer  intellects,  so  never  take  rest  till  ye've 
read  your  title  clear." 

"You  would  scarce  think  they  could  have  the  heart,  these  peo- 
ple— you  would  scarce  think  it,  would  you?"  said  Stephen  Orry, 
lifting  his  poor  glassy  eyes  to  Greeba's  face. 

Then  with  the  same  quiet  grace  as  before,  the  girl  got  up,  and 
gently  pushed  the  men  out  of  the  house  one  by  one.  "Come  back  in 
an  hour,"  she  whispered. 

It  was  a  gruesome  spectacle — the  rude  Methodists,  with  their 
loud  voices  and  hot  faces  and  eyes  of  flame,  trying  to  do  their 
duty  by  the  soul  of  their  fellow  creature;  the  poor  tortured  sinner, 
who  knew  he  had  lived  an  evil  life  and  saw  no  hope  of  pardon, 
and  would  not  be  so  much  a  coward  as  to  cry  for  mercy  in  his  last 
hours ;  the  young  Icelander  looking  on  in  silence  and  surprise :  and 
the  girl  moving  hither  and  thither  among  them  all,  like  a  soft- 
voiced  dove  in  a  cage  of  hoarse  jackdaws. 

But  when  the  little  house  was  clear,  and  the  Methodists,  who 
started  a  hymn  on  the  beach  outside,  had  gone  at  last,  and  their 
singing  had  faded  away,  and  there  was  only  the  low  wail  of  the 
ebbing  tide  where  there  had  been  so  loud  a  Babel  of  many  tongues, 
Stephen  Orry  raised  himself  feebly  on  his  elbow  and  asked  for  his 
coat.  Jason  found  it  on  the  hearth  and  lifted  it  up,  still  damp  and 
stiff,  from  the  puddle  of  water  that  lay  under  it.  Then  Stephen 
Orry  told  him  to  put  his  hands  in  the  breast  pocket  and  take  out 
what  he  would  find  there.  Jason  did  as  he  was  bidden  and  drew 
forth  the  bag  of  money.  "Here  it  is,"  he  said ;  "what  shall  I  do 
with  it?" 

"It  is  yours,"  said  Stephen  Orry. 

"Mine?"  said  Jason. 

"I  meant  it  for  my  son,"  said  Stephen  Orry.  He  spoke  in  his 
broken  English,  but  let  us  take  the  words  of  his  mouth.  "It's 
yours  now,  my  lad.  Fourteen  years  I've  been  gathering  it,  meaning 
it  for  my  son.  Little  I  thought  to  part  with  it  to  a  stranger,  but 
it's  yours,  for  you've  earned  it." 

"No,  no,"  said  Jason.     "I've  earned  nothing." 

"You  tried  to  save  my  life,"  said  Stephen  Orry. 

"I  couldn't  help  doing  that,"  said  Jason,  "and  I  want  no  pay." 

"But  it's  two  hundred  pounds,  my  lad." 


9o  THE   BONDMAN 

"No  matter." 

"Then  how  much  have  you  got?" 

"Nothing." 

"Has  the  wreck  taken  all?" 

"Yes — no — that  is,  I  never  had  anything." 

"Take  the  money;  for  God's  sake,  take  it,  and  do  what  you  like 
with  it,  or  I'll  die  in  torture,"  cried  Stephen  Orry,  and  with  a  groan 
he  threw  himself  backward  on  the  bed. 

"I'll  keep  it  for  your  son,"  said  Jason.  "His  name  is  Michael 
Sunlocks,  isn't  it?  And  he  has  sailed  for  Iceland,  hasn't  he? 
That's  my  country,  and  I  may  meet  him  some  day." 

Then  in  a  broken  voice  Stephen  Orry  said:  "If  you  have  a 
father  he  must  be  proud  of  you,  my  lad.  Who  is  he  ?" 

And  Jason  answered  moodily,  "I  have  no  father — none  I  ever 
knew." 

"Did  he  die  in  your  childhood?" 

"No." 

"Before  you  were  born?" 

"No." 

"Is  he  alive?" 

"Ay,  for  aught  I  know." 

Stephen  Orry  struggled  to  his  elbow  again.  "Then  he  had 
wronged  your  mother?"  he  said,  with  his  breath  coming  quick. 

"Ay,  maybe  so." 

"The  villain !  Yet  who  am  I  to  rail  at  him  ?  Is  your  mother 
still  alive?" 

"No." 

"Where  is  your  father?" 

"Don't  speak  of  him,"  said  Jason  in  an  under-breath. 

"But  what's  your  name,  my  lad?" 

"Jason." 

With  a  long  sigh  of  relief  Stephen  Orry  dropped  back  and  mut- 
tered to  himself:  "To  think  that  such  a  father  should  never  have 
known  he  had  such  a  son." 

The  power  of  life  ebbed  fast  in  him,  but  after  a  pause 
he  said: 

"My  lad." 

"Well?"  said  Jason. 

"I've  done  you  a  great  wrong." 

"When  did  you  do  me  a  wrong?" 

"To-night." 

"How?" 

"No  matter.    There's  no  undoing  it  now ;  God  forgive  me.    But 


THE   BONDMAN  91 

let  me  be  your  father,  though  I'm  a  dying  man,  for  that  will  give 
you  the  right  to  keep  my  poor  savings  for  yourself." 

"But  they  belong  to  your  son,"  said  Jason. 

"He'll  never  touch  them,"  said  Stephen  Orry. 

"Why  not?"  said  Jason. 

"Don't  ask  me.  Leave  me  alone.  For  mercy's  sake  don't  torture 
a  dying  man,"  cried  Stephen  Orry. 

"That's  not  what  I  meant  to  do,"  said  Jason,  giving  way ;  "and, 
if  you  wish  it,  I  will  keep  the  money." 

"Thank  God,"  said  Stephen  Orry. 

Some  moments  thereafter  he  lay  quiet,  breathing  fast  and  loud, 
while  Greeba  hovered  about  him.  Then,  in  a  feebler  voice,  he  said : 
"Do  you  think,  my  lad,  you'll  ever  meet  my  son?" 

"Maybe  so,"  said  Jason.  "I'll  go  back  when  I've  done  what 
I  came  to  do." 

"What  is  that?"  Greeba  whispered,  but  he  went  on  without  an- 
swering her. 

"Though  our  country  is  big,  our  people  are  few.  Where  will 
he  be?" 

"I  scarce  can  say.  He  has  gone  to  look  for  some  one.  He's  a 
noble  boy,  I  can  tell  you  that.  And  it's  something  for  a  father  to 
think  of  when  his  time  comes,  isn't  it  ?  He  loves  his  father,  too — 
that  is,  he  did  love  me  when  he  was  a  little  chap.  You  must  know 
he  had  no  mother.  Only  think,  I  did  everything  for  him,  though  I 
was  a  rough  fellow.  Yes,  I  nursed  him  and  comforted  him  as  any 
woman  might.  Ay,  and  the  little  man  loved  me  then,  for  all  he 
doesn't  bear  his  father's  name  now." 

Jason  glanced  up  inquiringly,  first  at  Stephen  Orry  and  then  at 
Greeba.  Stephen  saw  nothing.  His  eyes  were  dim,  but  full  of 
tenderness,  and  his  deep  voice  was  very  gentle,  and  he  rambled  on 
with  many  a  break  and  between  many  a  groan,  for  the  power  of 
life  was  low  in  him. 

"You  see  I  called  him  Sunlocks.  That  was  because  it  was  kind 
and  close-like.  He  used  to  ride  on  my  shoulder.  We  played  to- 
gether then,  having  no  one  else,  and  I  was  everything  to  him  and 
he  was  all  the  world  to  me.  Ah,  that  was  long  ago,  Sunlocks ! 
Little  Sunlocks !  My  little  Sunlocks  !  My  own  little—" 

At  that  point  he  laughed  a  little,  and  then  seemed  to  weep  like 
a  child,  though  no  tears  came  to  his  eyes,  and  the  next  moment, 
under  the  pain  of  joyful  memories  and  the  flow  of  blood  upon  the 
brain,  his  mind  began  to  wander.  It  was  very  pitiful  to  look  upon. 
His  eyes  were  open,  but  it  was  clear  that  they  did  not  see ;  his  ut- 
terance grew  thick  and  his  words  were  confused  and  foolish;  but 


92  THE   BONDMAN 

his  face  was  lit  up  with  a  surprising  joy,  and  you  knew  that  the 
years  had  rolled  back,  and  the  great  rude  fellow  was  alone  with  his 
boy,  and  doting  on  him.  Sometimes  he  would  seem  to  listen  as  if 
for  the  child's  answer,  and  then  he  would  laugh  as  if  at  its  artless 
prattle.  Again  he  would  seem  to  sing  the  little  one  to  sleep,  croon- 
ing very  low  a  broken  stave  that  ran  a  bar  and  then  stopped. 
Again  he  would  say  very  slowly  what  sounded  like  the  words  of 
some, baby  prayer,  and  while  he  did  so  his  chin  would  be  twisted 
into  his  breast  and  his  arms  would  struggle  to  cross  it,  as  though 
the  child  itself  were  once  more  back  in  his  bosom. 

At  all  this  Greeba  cried  behind  her  hands,  unable  to  look  or  listen 
any  longer,  and  Jason,  though  he  shed  no  tears,  said,  in  a  husky 
voice :  "He  can  not  be  altogether  bad  who  loved  his  son  so." 

The  delirium  grew  stronger,  the  look  of  joy,  and  the  tender 
words  gave  place  to  glances  of  fear  and  some  quick  beseeching,  and 
then  Jason  said  in  a  tremulous  whisper:  "It  must  be  something  to 
know  you  have  a  father  who  loves  you  like  that." 

But  hardly  had  the  words  been  spoken  when  he  threw  back  his 
head  and  asked  in  a  firm  voice  how  far  it  was  to  Port  Erin. 

"About  thirty  miles,"  said  Greeba,  looking  up  at  the  sudden 
question. 

"Not  more?"  asked  Jason. 

"No.  He  has  lived  there,"  she  answered,  with  a  motion  of  her 
head  downward  toward  the  bed. 

"He?" 

"Yes,  ever  since  his  wife  died.  Before  that  they  lived  in  this 
place  with  Michael  Sunlocks.  His  wife  met  with  a  terrible  death." 

"How?" 

"She  was  murdered  by  some  enemy  of  her  husband.  The  man 
escaped,  but  left  his  name  behind  him.  It  was  Patricksen." 

"Patricksen?" 

"Yes.  That  must  be  fourteen  years  ago,  and  since  then  he 
has  lived  alone  at  Port  Erin.  Do  you  wish  to  go  there?" 

"Ay — that  is,  so  I  intended." 

"Why?" 

"To  look  for  some  one." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"My  father." 

For  a  moment  Greeba  was  silent,  and  then  she  said  with  her 
eyes  down : 

"Why  look  for  him  if  he  wronged  your  mother?" 

"That's  why  I  meant  to  do  so." 

She  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  stammered,  "But  why?" 


THE   BONDMAN  93 

He  did  not  appear  to  hear  her :  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  man 
on  the  bed;  and  hardly  had  she  asked  the  question  when  she  cov- 
ered her  ears  with  her  hands  as  though  to  shut  out  his  answer. 

"Was  that  why  you  came?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "If  we  had  not  been  wrecked  to-night  I 
should  have  dropped  overboard  and  deserted." 

"Strange,"  she  said.  "It  was  just  what  he  did,  when  he  came 
to  the  island  nineteen  years  ago." 

"Yes,  nineteen  years  ago,"  Jason  repeated. 

He  spoke  like  a  man  in  a  sleep,  and  she  began  to  tremble. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  said. 

Within  a  few  minutes  his  face  had  suddenly  changed,  and  it 
was  now  awful  to  look  upon.  Not  for  an  instant  did  he  turn  his 
eyes  from  the  bed. 

The  delirium  of  the  sick  man  had  deepened  by  this  time;  the 
little,  foolish,  baby  play-words  in  the  poor  broken  English  came 
from  him  no  more,  but  he  seemed  to  ask  eager  questions,  in  a  tongue 
that  Greeba  did  not  understand. 

"This  man  is  an  Icelander,"  said  Jason. 

"Didn't  you  know  that  before?"  said  Greeba. 

"What  is  his  name?"   said  Jason. 

"Haven't  you  heard  it  yet?" 

"What  is  his  name  ?" 

Then  for  one  quick  instant  he  turned  his  face  toward  her  face, 
and  she  seemed  to  read  his  thought. 

"Oh  God!"  she  cried,  and  she  staggered  back. 

Just  then  there  was  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  shingle  out- 
side, and  at  the  next  moment  Stean  and  Thurstan  Fairbrother  and 
old  Davy  Kerruish  pushed  open  the  door.  They  had  come  to  fetch 
Greeba. 

"The  Methodee  man  tould  us,"  said  Davy,  standing  by  Jason's 
side,  "and,  my  gough,  but  it's  mortal  cur'ous.  What's  it  saying, 
'Talk  of  the  devil,  and  sure  enough  it  was  the  big  widda  man  his- 
self  we  were  talking  of,  less  nor  a  half  hour  afore  we  struck.'  " 

"Come,  my  lass,"  said  Thurstan. 

"No,  no,  I'll  stay  here,"  said  Greeba. 

"But  your  mother  is  fidgeting,  and  this  is  no  place  for  a  slip  of 
of  a  girl — come  !" 

"I'll  stay  with  him  alone,"  said  Jason. 

"No,    no,"   cried    Greeba. 

"It's  the  lad's  right,  for  all,"  said  old  Davy.  "He  fetched  the 
poor  chap  out  of  the  water.  Come,  let's  take  the  road  for  it." 

"Will  no  one  stay  instead  of  me?"  said  Greeba. 


94  THE    BONDMAN 

"Where's  the  use,"  said  Davy.  "He's  really  past  help.  He's 
outward  bound,  poor  chap.  Poor  Orry!  Poor  ould  Stephen!" 

Then  they  drew  Greeba  away,  and  with  a  look  of  fear  fixed  on 
Jason's  face  she  passed  out  at  the  door. 

Jason  was  now  alone  with  Stephen  Orry,  and  felt  like  a  man 
who  had  stumbled  into  a  hidden  grave.  He  had  set  out  over  the 
seas  to  search  for  his  father,  and  here,  at  his  first  setting  foot  on 
the  land,  his  father  lay  at  his  feet.  So  this  was  Stephen  Orry; 
this  was  he  for  whom  his  mother  had  given  up  all ;  this  was  he  for 
whom  she  had  taken  a  father's  curse;  this  was  he  for  whom  she 
had  endured  poverty  and  shame ;  this  was  he  who  had  neglected  her, 
struck  her,  forgotten  her  with  another  woman;  this  was  he  who 
had  killed  her — the  poor,  loving,  loyal,  passionate  heart — not  in  a 
day,  or  an  hour,  or  a  moment,  but  in  twenty  long  years.  Jason 
stood  over  the  bed  and  looked  down.  Surely  the  Lord  God  had 
heard  his  great  vow  and  delivered  the  man  into  his  hands.  He 
would  have  hunted  the  world  over  to  find  him,  but  here  at  a  stride 
he  had  him.  It  was  Heaven's  own  justice,  and  if  he  held  back  now 
the  curse  of  his  dead  mother  would  follow  him  from  the  grave. 

Yet  a  trembling  shook  his  whole  frame,  and  his  heart  beat 
as  if  it  would  break.  Why  did  he  wait?  He  remembered  the  ten- 
derness that  had  crept  upon  him  not  many  minutes  ago,  as  he 
listened  to  the  poor  baby  babble  of  the  man's  delirium,  and  at 
that  the  gall  in  his  throat  seemed  to  choke  him.  He  hated  himself 
for  yielding  to  it,  for  now  he  knew  for  whom  it  had  been  meant. 
It  had  been  meant  for  his  own  father  doting  over  the  memory  of 
another  son.  That  son  had  supplanted  himself;  that  son's  mother 
had  supplanted  his  own  mother ;  and  yet  he,  in  his  ignorance,  had 
all  but  wept  for  both  of  them.  But  no  matter,  he  was  now  to  be 
God's  own  right  hand  of  justice  on  this  evil-doer. 

Dawn  was  breaking,  and  its  woolly  light  crept  lazily  in  at  the 
little  window,  past  the  lamp  that  still  burned  on  the  window  board. 
The  wind  had  fallen,  and  the  sea  lay  gloomy  and  dark,  as  if  with 
its  own  heavy  memories  of  last  night's  work.  The  gray  light  fell 
on  the  sick  man's  face,  and  under  Jason's  eyes  it  seemed  to  light 
up  the  poor  miserable,  naked  soul  within.  The  delirium  had  now 
set  in  strong,  and  many  were  the  wild  words  and  frequent  was  the 
cry  that  rang  through  the  little  house. 

"Not  while  he  is  like  that,"  thought  Jason.  "I  will  wait  for  the 
lull." 

He  took  up  a  pillow  in  both  hands  and  stood  by  the  bed  and 
waited,  never  lifting  his  eyes  off  the  face.  But  the  lull  did  not 
come.  Would  it  not  come  at  all?  What  if  the  delirium  were  never 


THE   BONDMAN  95 

to  pass  away?  Could  he  still  do  the  thing  he  intended?  No,  no, 
no!  But  Heaven  had  heard  his  vow  and  led  him  there.  The 
delirium  would  yet  pass;  then  he  would  accuse  his  father,  face  to 
face  and  eye  to  eye,  and  then — 

The  current  of  Jason's  thoughts  was  suddenly  arrested  by  a 
cry  from  the  sick  man.  It  was  "Rachel !  Rachel !  Rachel !"  spoken 
in  a  voice  of  deep  entreaty,  and  there  came  after  it  in  disjointed 
words  of  the  Icelandic  tongue  a  pitiful  appeal  for  forgiveness.  At 
that  a  great  fear  seized  upon  Jason,  and  the  pillow  dropped 
from  his  hands  to  the  ground.  "Rachel !  Rachel !"  It  was  the 
old  cry  of  the  years  that  were  gone,  but  working  with  how  great 
a  difference — then,  to  stir  up  evil  passions — now,  to  break  down 
the  spirit  of  revenge. 

"Rachel !  Rachel !"  came  again  in  the  same  pitiful  voice  of  sup- 
plication ;  and  at  the  sound  of  that  name  so  spoken,  the  bitterness 
of  Jason's  heart  went  off  like  a  wail  of  the  wind.  It  was  a  cry 
of  remorse ;  a  cry  for  pardon ;  a  cry  for  mercy.  There  could  be  no 
jugglery.  In  that  hour  of  the  mind's  awful  vanquishment  a  human 
soul  stood  naked  behind  him  as  before  its  Maker. 

Jason's  great  resolve  was  shaken.  Had  it  been  only  a  blind 
tangle  of  passion  and  pain  ?  If  the  Almighty  had  called  him  to  be 
the  instrument  of  His  vengeance,  would  He  have  delivered  his 
enemy  into  his  hands  like  this — dying,  delirious,  with  broken  brain 
and  broken  heart? 

Still  his  mother's  name  came  from  his  father's  lips,  and  then  his 
mind  went  back  to  the  words  that  had  so  lately  passed  between 
them.  "Let  me  be  your  father,  though  I  am  a  dying  man."  Ah! 
sweet,  beautiful,  blind^ fallacy — could  he  not  let  it  be? 

The  end  was  very  near ;  the  delirium  passed  away,  and  Stephen 
Orry  opened  his  eyes.  The  great  creature  was  as  quiet  as  a  child 
now,  and  as  soft  and  gentle  as  a  child's  was  his  deep  hoarse  voice. 
He  knew  that  he  had  been  wandering  in  his  mind,  and  when  he 
looked  into  Jason's  face  a  pale  smile  crossed  his  own. 

"I  thought  I  had  found  her,"  he  said,  very  simply,  "my  poor 
young  wife  that  once  was;  it  was  she  that  I  lost  so  long  ago,  and 
did  such  wrong  by." 

Jason's  throat  was  choking  him,  but  he  stammered  out:  "Lie 
still,  sir.  lie  still  and  rest." 

But  Stephen  Orry  talked  on  in  the  same  simple  way :  "Ah,  how 
silly  I  am!  I  forgot  you  didn't  know." 

"Lie  still  and  rest,"  said  Jason  again. 

"There  was  some  one  with  her,  too.  I  thought  it  was  her  son — 
her  child  and  mine,  that  was  to  come  when  I  left  her.  And,  only 


96  THE   BONDMAN 

think,  I  looked  again,  and  it  seemed  to  be  you.  Yes,  you — for  it 
was  the  face  of  him  that  fetched  me  out  of  the  sea.  I  thought  you 
were  my  son  indeed." 

Then  Jason  could  bear  up  no  longer.  He  flung  himself  down  on 
his  knees  by  the  bedside,  and  buried  his  face  in  the  dying  man's 
breast. 

"Father,"  he  sobbed,  "I  am  your  son." 

But  Stephen  Orry  only  smiled,  and  answered  very  quietly :  "Ah, 
yes,  I  remember — that  was  part  of  our  bargain,  my  good  lad. 
Well,  God  bless  you,  my  son.  God  bless  and  speed  you." 

And  that  was  the  end  of  Orry. 


THE    BOOK    OF    MICHAEL    SUNLOCKS 


CHAPTER   I 

RED    JASON 

Now  the  facts  of  this  history  must  stride  on  some  four 
years,  and  come  to  a  great  crisis  in  the  lives  of  Greeba  and  Jason. 
Every  event  of  that  time  seemed  to  draw  these  two  together,  and 
the  first  of  the  circumstances  that  bound  them  came  very  close 
on  the  death  of  Stephen  Orry.  Only  a  few  minutes  after  Greeba, 
at  the  bidding  of  her  two  brothers,  Stean  and  Thurstan,  had  left 
Jason  alone  with  the  dying  man,  she  had  parted  from  them  without 
word  or  warning,  and  fled  back  to  the  little  hut  in  Port-y-Vullin. 
With  a  wild  laboring  of  heart,  panting  for  breath  and  full  of  dread, 
she  had  burst  the  door  open,  fearing  to  see  what  she  dared  not  think 
of;  but,  instead  of  the  evil  work  she  looked  for,  she  had  found 
Jason  on  his  knees  by  the  bedside,  sobbing  as  if  his  heart  would 
break,  and  Stephen  Orry  passing  away  with  a  tender  light  in  his 
eyes  and  a  word  of  blessing  on  his  lips.  At  that  sight  she  had 
stood  on  the  threshold  like  one  who  is  transfixed,  and  how  long 
that  moment  had  lasted  she  never  knew.  But  the  thing  she  re- 
membered next  was  that  Jason  had  taken  her  by  the  hand  and  drawn 
her  up,  with  all  the  fire  of  her  spirit  gone,  to  where  the  man  lay 
dead  before  them,  and  had  made  her  swear  to  him  there  and  then 
never  to  speak  of  what  she  had  seen,  and  to  put  away  from  her 
mind  forever  the  vague  things  she  had  but  partly  guessed.  After 
that  he  had  told  her,  with  a  world  of  pain,  that  Stephen  Orry  had 
been  his  father ;  that  his  father  had  killed  his  mother  by  base  neg- 
lect and  cruelty;  that  to  wipe  out  his  mother's  wrongs  he  had 
vowed  to  slay  his  father;  and  that  his  father,  not  knowing  him, 
save  in  the  vision  of  his  delirium,  had  died  in  the  act  of  blessing 
him.  Greeba  had  yielded  to  Jason,  because  she  had  been  conquered 
by  his  stronger  will,  and  was  in  fear  of  the  passion  which  flashed 
in  his  face;  but  hearing  all  this,  she  remembered  Michael  Sun- 
locks,  and  how  he  must  stand  as  the  son  of  the  other  woman ;  and 
straightway  she  found  her  own  reasons  why  she  should  be  silent 
on  all  that  she  had  that  night  seen  and  heard.  This  secret  was  the 
first  of  the  bonds  between  them;  and  the  second,  though  less  ob- 
vious, was  even  more  real. 

Losing  no  time,  Adam  Fairbrother  had  written  a  letter  to 
5  «">  Vol.  II. 


p8  THE   BONDMAN 

Michael  Sunlocks,  by  that  name,  telling  him  of  the  death  of  his 
father,  and  how,  so  far  as  the  facts  were  known,  the  poor  man 
came  by  it  in  making  the  port  in  his  boat  after  seeing  his  son  away 
in  the  packet.  This  he  had  despatched  to  the  only  care  known  to 
him,  that  of  the  Lord  Bishop  Petersen,  at  his  Latin  School  of 
Reykjavik;  but  after  a  time  the  letter  had  come-back,  with  a  note 
from  the  Bishop  saying  that  no  such  name  was  known  to  him,  and 
no  such  student  was  under  his  charge.  Much  afraid  that  the  same 
storm  that  had  led  Stephen  Orry  to  his  end  had  overtaken  Michael 
Sunlocks  also,  Adam  Fairbrother  had  then  promptly  readdressed 
his  letter  to  the  care  of  the  Governor-General,  who  was  also  the 
Postmaster,  and  added  a  postscript  asking  if,  after  the  sad  event 
whereof  he  had  thought  it  his  task  in  love  and  duty  to  apprise  him, 
there  was  the  same  necessity  that  his  dear  boy  should  remain  in 
Iceland.  "But,  indite  me  a  few  lines  without  delay,"  he  wrote, 
"giving  me  assurance  of  your  safe  arrival,  for  what  has  happened 
of  late  days  has  haunted  me  with  many  fears  of  mishap." 

Then  in  due  course  an  answer  had  come  from  Michael  Sunlocks, 
saying  he  had  landed  safely,  but  there  being  no  regular  mails,  he 
had  been  compelled  to  await  the  sailing  of  English  ships  to  carry  his 
letters ;  that  by  some  error  he  had  missed  the  first  of  these,  and  was 
now  writing  by  the  next,  that  many  strange  things  had  happened 
to  him,  and  he  was  lodged  in  the  house  of  the  Governor-General ; 
that  his  father's  death  had  touched  him  very  deeply ;  being  brought 
about  by  a  mischance  that  so  nearly  affected  himself;  that  the 
sad  fact,  so  far  from  leaving  him  free  to  return  home,  seemed  to 
make  it  the  more  necessary  that  he  should  remain  where  he  was 
until  he  had  done  what  he  had  been  sent  to  do:  and,  finally,  that 
what  that  work  was  he  could  not  tell  in  a  letter,  but  only  by  word  of 
mouth,  whenever  it  pleased  God  that  they  should  meet  again.  This, 
with  many  words  of  affection  for  Adam  himself,  in  thanks  for  his 
fatherly  anxiety,  and  some  mention  of  Greeba  in  tender  but 
guarded  terms,  was  the  sum  of  the  only  letter  that  had  come  from 
Michael  Sunlocks  in  the  four  years  after  Stephen  Orry's  death  to 
the  first  of  the  events  that  are  now  to  be  recorded. 

And  throughout  these  years  Jason  had  lived  at  Lague,  having 
been  accepted  as  housemate  by  the  six  Fairbrothers,  when  the 
ship-broken  men  had  gone  their  own  ways  on  receiving  from  their 
Dublin  owners  the  wages  that  were  due  to  them.  Though  his  re- 
lation to  Stephen  Orry  had  never  become  known,  it  had  leaked  out 
that  he  had  come  into  Orry's  money.  He  had  done  little  work. 
His  chief  characteristics  had  been  love  of  liberty  and  laziness.  In 
the  summer  he  had  fished  on  the  sea  and  in  the  rivers  and  he  had 


THE   BONDMAN  99 

shot  and  hunted  in  the  winter.  He  had  followed  these  pursuits  out 
of  sheer  love  of  an  idle  life ;  but  if  he  had  a  hobby  it  was  the  col- 
lecting of  birds.  Of  every  species  on  the  island,  of  land  or  sea  fowl, 
he  had  found  a  specimen.  He  stuffed  his  birds  with  some  skill, 
and  kept  them  in  the  little  hut  in  Port-y-Vullin. 

The  four  years  had  developed  his  superb  physique,  and  he  had 
grown  to  be  a  yet  more  magnificent  creature  than  Stephen  Orry 
himself.  He  was  rounder,  though  his  youth  might  have  pardoned 
more  angularity;  broader,  and  more  upright,  with  a  proud  poise  of 
head,  long  wavy  hair,  smooth  cheeks,  solid  white  teeth,  face  of 
broad  lines,  an  intelligent  expression,  and  a  deep  voice  that  made 
the  mountain  ring.  His  dress  suited  well  his  face  and  figure.  He 
wore  a  skin  cap  with  a  peak,  a  red  woolen  shirt  belted  about  the 
waist,  breeches  of  leather,  leggings  and  seaman's  boots.  The  cap 
was  often  awry,  and  a  tuft  of  red  hair  tumbled  over  his  bronzed 
forehead,  his  shirt  was  torn,  his  breeches  were  stained,  and  his 
leggings  tied  with  rope;  but  rough,  and  even  ragged,  as  his  dress 
was,  it  sat  upon  him  with  a  fine  rude  grace.  With  a  knife  in  his 
sheath,  a  net  or  a  decoy  over  his  arm,  a  pouch  for  powder  slung 
behind  him,  a  fowling-piece  across  his  shoulder,  and  a  dog  at  his 
heels,  he  would  go  away  into  the  mountains  as  the  evening  fell. 
And  in  the  early  gleams  of  sunrise  he  would  stride  down  again  and 
into  the  "Hibernian,"  scenting  up  t^ie  old  tavern  with  tobacco 
smoke,  and  carrying  many  dead  birds  at  his  belt,  with  the  blood 
still  dripping  from  their  heads  hung  down.  Folks  called  him  Red 
Jason,  or  sometimes  Jason  the  Red. 

He  began  to  visit  Government  House.  Greeba  was  there,  but 
at  first  he  seemed  not  to  see  her.  Simple  greetings  he  exchanged 
with  her,  and  that  was  all  the  commerce  between  them.  With  the 
Governor,  when  work  was  over,  he  sat  and  smoked,  telling  of  his 
own  country  and  its  laws,  and  the  ways  of  its  people,  talking  of 
his  hunting  and  fishing,  calling  the  mountains  Jokulls,  and  the  Tyn- 
wald  the  Loberg,  and  giving  names  of  his  own  to  the  glens,  the 
Chasm  of  Ravens  for  the  Dhoon,  and  Broad  Shield  for  B'allaglass. 
And  Adam  loved  to  learn  how  close  was  the  bond  between  his 
own  dear  isle  and  the  land  of  the  great  sea  kings  of  old  time,  but 
most  of  all  he  listened  to  what  Jason  said,  that  he  might  thereby 
know  what  kind  of  world  it  was  wherein  his  dear  lad  Michael 
Sunlocks  had  to  live  away  from  him. 

"A  fine  lad,"  Adam  Fairbrother  would  say  to  Greeba;  "a  lad 
of  fearless  courage,  and  unflinching  contempt  of  death,  with  a 
great  horror  of  lying  and  treachery,  and  an  inborn  sense  of  justice. 
Not  tender  and  gentle  with  his  strength,  as  my  own  dear  Sunlocks 


ioo  THE   BONDMAN 

is,  but  of  a  high  and  serious  nature,  and  having  passions  that  may 
not  be  trifled  with."  And  hearing  this,  and  the  more  deliberate 
warning  of  her  brothers  at  Lague,  Greeba  would  remember  that  she 
had  herself  the  best  reason  to  know  that  the  passions  of  Jason 
could  be  terrible. 

But  nothing  she  recked  of  it  all,  for  her  heart  was  as  light  as 
her  manners  in  those  days,  and  if  she  thought  twice  of  her  rela- 
tions with  Jason  she  remembered  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  the 
Governor,  and  he  was  only  a  poor  sailor  lad  who  had  been  wrecked 
off  their  coast. 

Jason  was  a  great  favorite  with  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  notwith- 
standing that  he  did  no  work.  Rumor  had  magnified  the  fortune 
that  Stephen  Orry  had  left  him,  and  the  two  hundred  pounds  stood 
at  two  thousand  in  her  eyes.  With  a  woman's  quck  instinct  she 
saw  how  Jason  stood  toward  Greeba,  almost  before  he  had  him- 
self become  conscious  of  it,  and  she  smiled  on  him  and  favored 
him.  A  whisper  of  this  found  its  way  from  Lague  to  Government 
House,  and  old  Adam  shook  his  head.  He  had  nothing  against 
Jason,  except  that  the  lad  was  not  fond  of  work,  and  whether  Jason 
was  poor  or  rich  counted  for  very  little,  but  he  could  not  forget 
his  boy  Sunlocks. 

Thus  while  Greeba  remained  with  her  father  there  was  but- 
little  chance  that  she  could  wrong  the  promise  she  had  made  to 
Michael;  but  events  seemed  to  force  her  into  the  arms  of  Jason. 
Her  mother  had  never  been  of  an  unselfish  spirit,  and  since  parting 
from  her  husband  she  had  shown  a  mean  penuriousness.  This 
affected  her  six  sons  chiefly,  and  they  realized  that  when  she  had 
taken  their  side  against  their  father  she  had  taken  the  cream  of 
their  living  also.  Lague  was  now  hers  for  her  lifetime,  and  only 
theirs  after  she  was  done  with  it ;  and  if  they  asked  much  more  for 
their  work  than  bed  and  board  she  reminded  them  of  this,  and 
bade  them  wait.  Soon  tiring  of  their  Lenten  entertainment,  they 
trooped  off,  one  after  one,  to  their  father,  badly  as  they  had 
dealt  by  him,  and  complained  loudly  of  the  great  wrong  he  had 
done  them  when  he  made  over  the  lands  of  Lague  to  their  mother. 
What  were  they  now,  though  sons  of  the  Governor  ?  No  better  than 
hinds  on  their  mother's  farm,  expected  to  work  for  her  from  light 
to  dusk,  and  getting  nothing  for  their  labor  but  the  house  she  kept 
over  their  heads.  Grown  men  they  all  were  now,  and  the  elder 
of  them  close  on  their  prime,  yet  none  were  free  to  marry,  for 
none  had  the  right  to  a  penny  for  the  living  he  earned ;  and  all  this 
came  of  their  father's  unwise  generosity. 

Old  Adam  could  not  gainsay  them,  and  he  would  not  reproach 


THE   BONDMAN  101 

them,  so  he  did  all  that  remained  to  him  to  do,  and  that  was  to  ex- 
ercise a  little  more  of  the  same  unwise  generosity,  and  give  them 
money.  And  finding  this  easy  means  of  getting  what  they  wanted, 
they  came  again,  and  again,  all  six  of  them,  from  Asher  to  Gentle- 
man Johnny,  and  as  often  as  they  came  they  went  away  satisfied, 
though  old  Adam  shook  his  head  when  he  saw  how  mean  and  small 
was  the  spirit  of  his  sons.  Greeba  also  shook  her  head,  but  from 
another  cause,  for  though  she  grudged  her  brothers  nothing  she 
knew  that  her  father  was  fast  being  impoverished.  Once  she  hinted 
as  much,  but  old  Adam  made  light  of  her  misgivings,  saying  that  if 
the  worst  came  to  the  worst  he  had  still  his  salary,  and  what  was 
the  good  of  his  money  if  he  might  not  use  it,  and  what  was  the 
virtue  of  charity  if  it  must  not  begin  at  home? 

But  the  evil  was  not  ended  there  for  the  six  lumbering  men  who 
objected  to  work  without  pay  were  nothing  loth  to  take  pay  without 
work.  Not  long  after  the  first  of  the  visits  to  Government  House, 
Lague  began  to  be  neglected. 

Asher  lay  in  the  ingle  and  dozed;  Thurstan  lay  about  in  the 
"Hibernian"  and  drank;  Ross  and  Stean  started  a  ring  of  game- 
cocks, Jacob  formed  a  nest  of  private  savings,  and  John  developed 
his  taste  for  dress  and  his  appetite  for  gallantries.  Mrs.  Fairbrother 
soon  discovered  the  source  of  the  mischief,  and  railed  at  the  name 
of  her  husband,  who  was  ruining  her  boys  and  bringing  herself  to 
beggary. 

Thus  far  had  matters  gone,  during  the  four  years  following  the 
death  of  Stephen  Orry,  and  then  a  succession  of  untoward  circum- 
stances hastened  a  climax  of  grave  consequence  to  all  the  persons 
concerned  in  this  history.  Two  bad  seasons  had  come,  one  on  the 
end  of  the  other.  The  herring  fishing  had  failed,  and  the  potato 
crop  had  suffered  a  blight.  The  fisher  folk  and  the  poor  farming 
people  were  reduced  to  sore  straits.  The  one  class  had  to  throw 
the  meal  bag  across  their  shoulders  and  go  around  the  houses  beg- 
ging, and  the  other  class  had  to  compound  with  their  landlords  or 
borrow  from  their  neighbors. 

Where  few  were  rich  and  many  were  poor,  the  places  of  call 
for  either  class  were  not  numerous.  But  two  houses  at  least  were 
always  open  to  those  who  were  in  want — Lague  and  Government 
House;  though  their  welcome  at  the  one  was  very  unlike  their 
welcome  at  the  other.  Mrs.  Fairbrother  relieved  their  necessities 
by  lending  them  money  on  mortgage  on  their  lands  or  boats,  and 
her  interest  was  in  proportion  to  their  necessities.  They  had  no 
choice  but  accept  her  terms,  however  rigid,  and  if  in  due  course 
they  could  not  meet  them  they  had  no  resource  but  to  yield  up 


102  THE   BONDMAN 

to  her  their  little  belongings.  In  less  than  half  a  year  boat  after 
boat,  croft  after  croft,  and  even  farm  after  farm  had  fallen  into 
her  hands.  She  grew  rich,  and  the  richer  she  grew  the  more  penu- 
rious she  became.  There  were  no  banks  in  the  north  of  the  island 
then,  and  the  mistress  of  Lague  was  in  effect  the  farmers'  banker. 

Government  House,  in  the  south  of  the  island,  had  yet  more 
applicants;  but  what  the  Governor  had  he  gave,  and  when  his 
money  was  gone  he  served  out  orders  on  the  millers  for  meal  and 
the  weavers  for  cloth.  It  soon  became  known  that  he  kept  open 
house  to  the  poor,  and  from  north  and  south,  east  and  west,  the 
needy  came  to  him  in  troops,  and  with  them  came  the  idle  and  the 
dissolute.  He  knew  the  one  class  from  the  other,  yet  railed  at  both 
in  threatening  words,  reproaching  their  improvidence  and  pre- 
dicting his  own  ruin,  but  he  ended  by  giving  to  all  alike.  They 
found  out  his  quarter-day  and  came  in  throngs  to  meet  it,  knowing 
that,  bluster  as  he  would,  while  the  good  man  had  money  he  was 
sure  to  give  it  to  all  who  asked.  The  sorry  troop,  good  and  bad, 
worthy  and  unworthy,  soon  left  him  without  a  pound.  He  fumed 
at  this  when  Greeba  cast  up  his  reckoning,  but  comforted  himself 
with  the  thought  that  he  had  still  his  stipend  of  five  hundred 
pounds  a  year  coming  in  to  him,  however  deeply  it  might  be  con- 
demned beforehand. 

At  the  first  pinch  of  his  necessity  his  footman  deserted  him  and 
after  the  footman  went  the  groom. 

"They  say  the  wind  is  tempered  to  the  shorn  sheep,  Greeba," 
said  he,  and  laughed. 

He  had  always  stood  somewhat  in  awe  of  these  great  persons, 
and  his  spirits  rose  visibly  at  the  loss  of  them,  for  he  had  never 
yet  reconciled  himself  to  the  dignity  of  his  state. 

"It's  wonderful  how  much  a  man  may  do  for  himself  when  he's 
put  to  it,"  he  said,  as  he  groomed  his  own  horse  next  morning. 
His  sons  were  not  so  easily  appeased,  and  muttered  hard  words  at 
his  folly,  for  their  own  supplies  had  by  this  time  suffered  curtail- 
ment. He  was  ruining  himself  at  a  breakneck  pace,  and  if  he 
came  to  die  in  the  gutter,  who  should  say  that  it  had  not  served 
him  right  ?  The  man  who  threw  away  his  substance  with  his  eyes 
open  deserved  to  know  by  bitter  proof  that  it  had  gone.  Jason 
heard  all  this  at  the  fireside  at  Lague,  and  though  he  could  not 
answer  it,  he  felt  his  palms  itch  sorely,  and  his  fists  tighten  like 
ribs  of  steel,  and  his  whole  body  stiffen  up  and  silently  measure  its 
weight  against  that  of  Thurstan  Fairbrother,  the  biggest  and  heav- 
iest and  hardest-spoken  of  the  brothers.  Greeba  heard  it,  too,  but 
took  it  with  a  gay  lightsomeness,  knowing  all,  yet  fearing  nothing. 


THE   BONDMAN  103 

"What  matter?"  she  said,  and  laughed. 

But  strange  and  silly  enough  were  some  of  the  shifts  that  her 
father's  open-handedness  put  her  to  in  these  bad  days  of  the  bitter 
need  of  the  island's  poor  people. 

It  was  the  winter  season,  when  things  were  at  their  worst,  and 
on  Christmas  Eve  Greeba  had  a  goose  killed  for  their  Christmas 
dinner.  The  bird  was  hung  in  one  of  the  outhouses,  to  drain  and 
cool  before  being  plucked,  and  while  it  was  there  Greeba  went 
out,  leaving  her  father  at  home.  Then  came  three  of  the  many  who 
had  never  yet  been  turned  empty  from  the  Governor's  door.  Adam 
blustered  at  all  of  them,  but  he  emptied  his  pockets  to  one,  gave  the 
goose  to  another,  and  smuggled  something  out  of  the  pantry  for  the 
third. 

The  goose  was  missed  by  the  maid  whose  work  it  was  to 
pluck  it,  and  its  disappearance  was  made  known  to  Greeba  on  her 
return.  Guessing  at  the  way  it  had  gone,  she  went  into  the  room 
where  her  father  sat  placidly  smoking,  and  trying  to  look  wondrous 
serene  and  innocent. 

"What  do  you  think,  father  ?"  she  said ;  "some  one  has  stolen  the 
goose." 

"I'm  afraid,  my  dear,"  he  answered  meekly,  "I  gave  it  away  to 
poor  Kinrade,  the  parish  clerk.  Would  you  believe  it,  he  and  his 
good  old  wife  hadn't  a  bit  or  a  sup  for  their  Christmas  dinner?" 

"Well,"  said  Greeba,  "you'll  have  to  be  content  with  bread 
and  cheese  for  your  own,  for  we  have  nothing  else  in  the  house 
now." 

"I'm  afraid,  my  dear,"  he  stammered,  "I  gave  away  the  cheese 
too.  Poor  daft  Gelling,  who  lives  on  the  mountains,  had  nothing 
to  eat  but  a  loaf  of  bread,  poor  fellow." 

Now  the  rapid  impoverishment  of  the  Governor  was  forcing 
Greeba  into  the  arms  of  Jason,  though  they  had  yet  no  idea  that 
this  was  so ;  and  when  the  crisis  came  that  loosened  the  ties  which 
held  Greeba  to  her  father,  it  came  as  a  surprise  to  all  three  of  them. 

The  one  man  in  the  island  who  had  thus  far  shown  a  complete 
indifference  to  the  sufferings  of  the  poor  in  their  hour  of  tribulation 
was  the  Bishop  of  Sodor  and  Man.  This  person  was  a  fashionable 
ecclesiastic — not  a  Manxman — a  Murray,  and  a  near  kinsman  of 
the  Lord  of  j:he  Island,  who  had  kept  the  See  four  years  vacant 
that  the  sole  "place  of  profit  in  the  island  might  thereby  be  retained 
for  his  own  family.  Many  years  the  Bishop  had  drawn  his  stipend, 
tithe  and  glebe  rents,  which  were  very  large  in  proportion  to  the 
diocese,  and  almost  equal  in  amount  to  the  emoluments  of 
the  whole  body  of  the  native  clergy.  He  held  small  com- 


104  THE   BONDMAN 

merce  with  his  people,  and  the  bad  seasons  troubled  him  little  until 
he  felt  the  pinch  of  them  himself.  But  when  he  found  it  hard  to 
gather  his  tithe  he  began  to  realize  that  the  island  was  passing 
through  sore  straits.  Then  he  sold  his  tithe  charges  by  auction  in 
England,  and  they  were  knocked  down  to  a  Scotch  factor — a  hard 
man,  untroubled  by  sentiment,  and  not  too  proud  to  get  his  own  by 
means  that  might  be  thought  to  soil  the  cloth  of  a  Bishop. 

When  news  of  this  transfer  reached  the  island  the  Manx  clergy 
looked  black,  though  they  dared  say  nothing;  but  the  poor  people 
grumbled  audibly,  for  they  knew  what  was  coming.  It  soon  came, 
in  the  shape  of  writs  from  the  Bishop's  seneschal,  served  by  the 
Bishop's  sumner.  Then  the  cry  of  the  poor  reached  the  Governor 
at  Castletown.  No  powers  had  he  to  stay  the  seizure  of  goods  and 
stock,  for  arrears  that  were  forfeit  to  the  Church  Courts,  but  he 
wrote  to  the  Bishop,  asking  him  to  stay  execution  at  such  a  moment 
of  the  island's  necessity.  The  Bishop  answered  him  curtly  that  the 
matter  was  now  outside  his  control.  At  that  the  Governor  in- 
quired into  the  legality  of  the  sale,  and  found  good  reason  to  ques- 
tion it.  He  wrote  again  to  the  Bishop,  hinting  at  his  doubts,  and 
then  the  Bishop  told  him  to  mind  his  own  business.  "My  business 
is  the  welfare  of  the  people,"  the  Governor  answered,  "and  be  you 
Bishop  or  Lord,  or  both,  be  sure  that  while  I  am  here  I  will  see 
to  it." 

"Such  is  the  penalty  of  setting  a  beggar  on  horseback,"  the 
Bishop  rejoined. 

Meantime  the  Scotch  factor  went  on  with  his  work,  and  notices 
were  served  that  if  arrears  of  tithe  rent  were  not  paid  by  a  given 
date,  cattle  or  crop  to  the  value  of  them  would  then  be  seized  in 
the  Bishop's  name.  When  the  word  came  to  Government  House, 
the  Governor  announced  to  Greeba  his  intention  to  be  present 
at  the  first  seizure.  She  tried  to  restrain  him,  fearing  trouble;  but 
he  was  fully  resolved.  Then  she  sent  word  by  old  Chaise  A'Killey 
to  her  brothers  at  Lague,  begging  them  to  go  with  their  father  and 
see  him  through,  but  one  and  all  refused.  There  was  mischief 
brewing,  and  if  the  Governor  had  a  right  to  interfere,  he  had  a 
right  to  have  the  civil  forces  at  the  back  of  him.  If  he  had  no 
right  to  the  help  of  Castle  Rushen  he  had  no  right  to  stop  the 
execution.  In  any  case,  they  had  no  wish  to  meddle. 

When  old  Chaise  brought  back  this  answer.  Red  Jason  chanced 
to  be  at  Castletown.  He  had  been  at  Government  House  oftener 
than  usual  since  the  clouds  had  begun  to  hang  on  it.  Coming  down 
from  the  mountains,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  his  fowling-piece 
over  his  shoulder,  and  his  birds  hanging  from  his  belt,  he  would 


THE   BONDMAN  105 

sometimes  contrive  to  get  up  into  the  yard  at  the  back,  fling  down 
a  brace  of  pheasants  on  to  the  kitchen  floor,  and  go  off  again  with- 
out speaking  to  any  one.  Greeba  had  been  too  smart  for  him  this 
time,  and  he  was  standing  before  her  with  a  look  of  guilt  when 
Chaise  came  up  on  his  errand.  Then  Jason  heard  all,  and 
straightway  offered  to  go  with  the  Governor,  and  never  let  wit  of 
his  intention. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you!"  said  Greeba,  and  she  looked  up 
into  his  bronzed  face  and  smiled  proudly,  and  her  long  lashes 
blinked  over  her  beautiful  eyes.  Her  glance  seemed  to  go  through 
him.  It  seemed  to  go  through  all  nature;  and  fill  the  whole  world 
with  a  new,  glad  light. 

The  evil  day  came,  and  the  Governor  was  as  good  as  his  word. 
He  went  away  to  Peel,  where  the  first  seizure  was  to  be  made. 
There  a  great  crowd  had  already  gathered,  and  at  sight  of  Adam's 
face  a  great  shout  went  up.  The  factor  heard  it,  as  he  came  on 
from  Bishop's  Court  with  a  troop  of  his  people  about  him.  "I'll 
mak'  short  shrift  of  a'  that,  the  noo,"  he  said.  When  he  came  up  he 
ordered  that  a  cowhouse  door  should  be  opened  and  the  cattle 
brought  out  for  instant  sale,  for  he  had  an  auctioneer  by  his  side. 
But  the  door  was  found  to  be  locked,  and  he  shouted  to  his  men 
to  leap  on  to  the  roof  and  strip  off  the  thatch.  Then  the  Governor 
cried  "Stop,"  and  called  on  the  factor  to  desist,  for  though  he 
might  seize  the  cattle  there  would  be  no  sale  that  day,  since  no  man 
there  present  would  take  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  the  poor. 

"Then  they  shall  try  the  milk,"  said  the  factor,  with  a  hoarse 
laugh,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  Bishop's  seneschal,  a  briefless 
advocate,  stepped  out,  pushed  his  hot  face  into  Adam's  and  said 
that,  Governor  as  he  was,  if  he  encouraged  the  people  to  resist, 
the  sumner  should  there  and  then  summon  him  to  appear  before 
the  Church  Courts  for  contempt. 

At  that  insult  the  crowd  surged  around,  muttering  deep  oaths, 
and  factor  and  seneschal  were  both  much  hustled.  In  another  mo- 
ment there  was  a  general  struggle;  people  were  shouting,  the  Gov- 
ernor was  on  the  ground  and  in  danger  of  being  trodden  under 
foot,  the  factor  had  drawn  a  pistol,  and  some  of  his  men  were 
flourishing  hangers. 

By  this  time  Red  Jason  lounged  up,  as  if  by  chance,  to  the  out- 
skirts of  the  crowd,  and  now  he  pushed  through  with  great  strides, 
lifted  the  Governor  to  his  feet,  laid  the  factor  on  the  broad  of  his 
back,  and  clapped  his  pistol  hand  under  one  heavy  heel.  Then  the 
hangers  flashed  round  Jason's  face,  and  he  stretched  his  arms  and 
laid  out  about  him.  In  two  minutes  he  had  made  a  wide  circle 


106  THE   BONDMAN 

where  he  stood,  and  in  two  minutes  more  the  factor  and  his  men, 
with  seneschal,  sumner,  auctioneer,  and  all  the  riffraff  of  the 
Church  Courts,  were  going  off  up  the  road  with  best  foot  fore- 
most, and  a  troop  of  the  people,  like  a  pack  of  hounds  at  full  cry, 
behind. 

Then  the  remnant  of  the  crowd  compared  notes  and  bruises. 

"Man  alive,  what  a  boy  to  fight,"  said  one. 

"Who  was  it?"  said  another. 

"Och,  Jason  the  Red,  of  coorse,"  said  a  third. 

Jason  was  the  only  man  badly  injured.  He  had  a  deep  cut  over 
the  right  brow,  and  though  the  wound  bled  freely  he  made  light 
of  it.  But  Adam  was  much  troubled  at  the  sight. 

"I  much  misdoubt  me  but  we'll  rue  the  day,"  he  said. 

Jason  laughed  at  that,  and  they  went  back  to  Castletown  to- 
gether. Greeba  saw  them  coming,  and  all  but  fainted  at  the  white 
bandage  that  gleamed  across  Jason's  forehead;  but  he  bade  her 
have  no  fear,  for  his  wound  was  nothing.  Nevertheless  she  must 
needs  dress  it  afresh,  though  her  deft  fingers  trembled  wofully,  and, 
seeing  how  near  the  knife  had  come  to  the  eye,  all  her  heart  was  in 
her  mouth.  But  he  only  laughed  at  the  bad  gash,  and  thought  with 
what  cheer  he  would  take  such  another  just  to  have  the  same  ten- 
der hands  bathe  it,  and  stitch  it,  and  to  see  the  troubled  heaving 
of  the  round  bosom  that  was  before  him  while  his  head  was  held 
down. 

"Aren't  you  very  proud  of  yourself,  Jason?"  she  whispered 
softly,  as  she  finished. 

"Why  proud?"  said  he. 

"It's  the  second  time  you  have  done  as  I  have  bidden  you,  and 
suffered  for  doing  so,"  she  said. 

He  knew  not  what  reply  to  make,  scarcely  realizing  which  way 
her  question  tended.  So,  feeling  very  stupid,  he  said  again: 

"But  why  proud?" 

"Aren't  you,  then?"  she  said.    "Because  /  am  proud  of  you." 

They  were  alone,  and  he  saw  her  breast  heave  and  her  great 
eyes  gleam,  and  he  felt  dizzy.  At  the  next  instant  their  hands 
touched,  and  then  his  blood  boiled,  and  before  he  knew  what  he 
was  doing  he  had  clasped  the  beautiful  girl  in  his  arms,  and  kissed 
her  on  the  lips  and  cheek.  She  sprang  away  from  him,  blushing 
deeply,  but  he  knew  that  she  was  not  angry,  for  she  smiled  through 
her  deep  rich  color,  as  she  fled  out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe.  From 
that  hour  he  troubled  his  soul  no  more  with  fears  that  he  was  un- 
worthy of  Greeba's  love,  for  he  looked  at  his  wound  in  the  glass, 
and  remembered  her  words,  and  laughed  in  his  heart. 


THE   BONDMAN  107 

The  Governor  was  right  that  there  would  be  no  sale  for  arrears 
of  tithe  charges.  After  a  scene  at  Bishop's  Court  the  factor  went 
back  to  England,  and  no  more  was  heard  of  the  writs  served  by 
the  sumner.  But  wise  folks  predicted  a  storm  for  Adam  Fair- 
brother,  and  the  great  people  were  agreed  that  his  conduct  had 
been  the  maddest  folly. 

"He'll  have  to  take  the  horns  with  the  hide,"  said  Deemster 
Lace. 

"He's  a  fool  that  doesn't  know  which  side  his  bread  is  but- 
tered," said  Mrs.  Fairbrother. 

The  storm  came  quickly,  but  not  from  the  quarter  expected. 

Since  the  father  of  the  Duke  of  Athol  had  sold  his  fiscal  rights 
to  the  English  Crown  the  son  had  rued  the  bargain.  All  the  in- 
terest in  the  island  that  remained  to  him  lay  in  his  title,  his  patron- 
age of  the  Bishopric,  and  his  Governor-Generalship.  His  title 
counted  for  little,  for  it  was  unknown  at  the  English  Court,  and 
the  salary  of  his  Governor-Generalship  counted  for  less,  for,  not 
being  resident  in  the  island,  he  had  to  pay  a  local  Governor.  The 
patronage  of  the  Bishopric  was  the  one  tangible  item  of  his  interest, 
and  when  the  profits  of  that  office  were  imperiled  he  determined  to 
part  with  his  truncated  honors.  Straightway  he  sold  them  bag  and 
baggage  to  the  Crown,  for  nearly  six  times  as  much  as  his  father 
had  got  for  the  insular  revenues.  When  this  neat  act  of  truck 
and  trade  was  complete  he  needed  his  deputy  no  more,  and  sent 
Adam  Fairbrother  an  instant  warning,  with  a  half-year's  salary 
for  smart  money. 

The  blow  came  with  a  shock  on  Greeba  and  her  father,  but  there 
was  no  leisure  to  sigh  over  it.  Government  House  and  its  furniture 
belonged  to  the  Government,  and  the  new  Governor  might  take 
possession  of  it  at  any  moment.  But  the  stock  on  its  lands  was 
Adam's  and  as  it  was  necessary  to  dispose  of  it,  he  called  a  swift 
sale.  Half  the  island  came  to  it,  and  many  a  brave  brag  came 
then  from  many  a  vain  stomach.  Adam  was  rightly  served !  What 
was  there  to  expect  when  jacks  were  set  in  office?  With  five  hun- 
dred a  year  coming  in  for  twenty  years  he  was  as  poor  as  a  church 
mouse !  Aw,  money  in  the  hands  of  some  men  was  like  water  in 
a  sieve! 

Adam's  six  sons  were  there,  looking  on  with  sneering  lips,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "Let  nobody  blame  us  for  a  mess  like  this."  Red 
Jason  was  there,  too,  glooming  as  black  as  a  thundercloud,  and  itch- 
ing to  do  battle  with  somebody  if  only  a  fit  case  would  offer. 

Adam  himself  did  not  show  his  face.  He  was  ashamed— he  was 
crushed— he  was  humiliated— but  not  for  the  reason  attributed  to 


io8  THE   BONDMAN 

him  by  common  report.  Alone  he  sat,  and  smoked  and  smoked, 
in  the  room  at  the  back,  from  whence  he  had  seen  Greeba  and 
Michael  Sunlocks  that  day  when  they  walked  side  by  side  into  the 
paved  yard,  and  when  he  said  within  himself:  "Now,  God  grant 
that  this  may  be  the  end  of  all  parting  between  them  and  me." 
He  was  thinking  of  that  day  now ;  that  it  was  very,  very  far  away. 
He  heard  the  clatter  of  feet  below,  and  the  laughter  of  the  bid- 
ders and  the  wondrous  jests  of  the  facetious  auctioneer. 

When  the  work  was  over,  and  the  house  felt  quiet  and  so,  so 
empty,  Greeba  came  in  to  him,  with  eyes  large  and  red,  and  kissed 
him  without  saying  a  word.  Then  he  became  mighty  cheerful  all 
at  once,  and  bade  her  fetch  out  her  account  books,  for  they  had  their 
own  reckoning  yet  to  make,  and  now  was  the  time  to  make  it.  She 
did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  counted  up  her  father's  debts,  with 
many  a  tear  dropping  over  them  as  if  trying  to  blot  them  out  for- 
ever. And  meanwhile  he  counted  up  his  half-year's  smart  money, 
and  the  pile  of  silver  and  gold  that  had  come  of  the  sale.  When 
all  was  reckoned,  they  found  they  would  be  just  fifteen  pounds  to 
the  good,  and  that  was  now  their  whole  fortune. 

Next  morning  there  came  a  great  company  of  the  poor,  and 
stood  in  silence  about  the  house.  They  knew  that  Adam  had 
nothing  to  give,  and  they  came  for  nothing ;  they  on  their  part  had 
nothing  to  offer,  and  they  had  nothing  to  say;  but  this  was  their 
way  of  showing  sympathy  with  the  good  man  in  his  dark  hour. 

The  next  morning  after  that  old  Adam  said  to  Greeba: 

"Come,  girl,  there  is  only  one  place  in  the  island  that  we  have 
a  right  to  go  to,  and  that's  Lague.  Let's  away." 

And  toward  Lague  they  set  their  faces,  afoot,  all  but  empty- 
handed,  and  with  no  one  but  crazy  old  Chaise  A'Killey  for 
company. 


CHAPTER  II 

HOW   GREEBA    WAS    LEFT   WITH    JASON 

IT  was  early  summer,  and  the  day  was  hot;  there  had  been 
three  weeks  of  drought,  and  the  roads  were  dusty.  Adam  walked 
with  a  stout  blackthorn  stick,  his  flaccid  figure  sometimes  swaying 
for  poise  and  balance,  and  his  snow-white  hair  rising  gently  in  the 
soft  breeze  over  his  tender  old  face,  now  plowed  so  deep  with  labor 
and  sorrow.  Chaise  was  driving  his  carrier's  cart,  whereon  lay  all 
that  was  left  of  Adam's  belongings,  save  only  what  the  good  man 


THE   BONDMAN 


109 


carried  in  his  purse.  And  seeing  how  heavy  the  road  was  to  one 
of  Adam's  years,  though  his  own  were  hardly  fewer,  poor  old 
Chaise,  recking  nothing  of  dignity  lost  thereby,  would  have  had 
him  to  mount  the  shafts  and  perch  on  the  box  behind  the  pony's 
tail.  But  Adam,  thinking  as  little  of  pride,  said  No,  that  every 
herring  should  hang  by  its  own  gills,  and  the  pony  had  its  full  day's 
work  before  it;  moreover,  that  it  was  his  right  to  walk  at  his  own 
expense  now,  having  ridden  twenty  years  at  the  expense  of  the 
island.  So  he  kept  the  good  blackthorn  moving,  and  Greeba  stepped 
along  nimbly  by  his  side.  And  when  the  Castletown  coach  over- 
took and  passed  them  on  its  way  to  Douglas,  and  some  of  the  farm- 
ing folk  who  rode  on  it  leaned  over  saucily  and  hailed  Adam  by 
his  Christian  name,  he  showed  no  shame  or  rancor,  until,  when 
the  coach  was  gone,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  hot  color  that  had 
mounted  to  Greeba's  cheeks.  Then,  without  a  word,  he  turned 
his  mellow  old  face  to  his  feet,  and  strode  along  a  good  half  mile  in 
silence. 

And  meantime,  Chaise,  thinking  to  lighten  the  burden  of  the 
way  with  cheerful  talk,  rattled  along  in  his  crazy  screech  on  many 
subjects,  but  found  that  all  came  round,  by  some  strange  twist,  to 
the  one  subject  that  might  not  be  discussed.  Thus,  looking  at  his 
pony,  he  told  of  the  donkey  he  had  before  it,  the  same  that  Michael 
Sunlocks  rode  long  years  ago;  how  he  himself  had  fallen  sick  and 
could  not  keep  it,  and  so  gave  it  without  a  penny  to  a  neighbor  for 
feeding  it ;  and  how  when  he  got  better  he  wanted  to  borrow  it,  but 
the  neighbor,  in  base  ingratitude  and  selfishness,  would  not  lend  it 
without  pay. 

"Faith,  it's  alwis  lek  that,"  said  Chaise.  "Give  a  man  yer  shirt, 
and  ye  must  cut  yer  lucky  or  he'll  be  after  axing  ye  for  yer  skin." 

When  they  came  by  Douglas,  Chaise  was  for  skirting  round  by 
the  Spring  Valley  through  Braddon,  but  old  Adam,  seeing  his  drift, 
would  not  pretend  to  be  innocent  of  it,  and  said  that  if  there  were 
dregs  in  his  cup  he  was  in  the  way  of  draining  them  without  mak- 
ing too  many  wry  faces  about  it.  And  as  for  the  people  of  the  town, 
if  they  thought  no  shame  to  stare  at  him  he  thought  no  shame 
to  be  stared  at,  yet  that  that  was  good  enough  for  himself  might  not 
be  so  for  one  who  had  less  deserved  it,  and  Greeba  could  go  with 
Chaise  by  Braddon,  and  they  would  meet  again  on  Onchan  Hill. 

To  this  Greeba  would  not  consent ;  and  as  it  chanced  thera  was 
little  need,  for  when  they  got  into  Douglas  the  town  was  all  astir 
with  many  carriages  and  great  troops  of  people  making  for  the 
quay,  so  that  no  one  seemed  so  much  as  to  see  the  little  company 
of  three  that  came  covered  with  dust  out  of  the  country  roads. 


i  io  THE   BONDMAN 

"Aw,  bad  cess,  what  jeel  is  this?"  said  Chaise;  and  before  they 
had  crossed  the  little  market-place  by  the  harbor,  where  the  bells 
of  old  St.  Matthew's  rang  out  a  merry  peal,  they  learned  for  cer- 
tain the  cause  of  the  joyful  commotion;  for  there  they  were  all  but 
run  down  by  the  swaying  and  surging  crowds,  that  came  shouting 
and  cheering  by  the  side  of  an  open  carriage,  wherein  sat  a  very 
old  gentleman  in  the  uniform  of  a  soldier.  It  was,  as  Adam  had 
already  divined  the  new  Governor-General,  Colonel  Cornelius 
Smelt,  newly  arrived  that  day  in  the  island  as  the  first  direct  rep- 
resentative of  the  English  crown  in  succession  to  the  Lords  of  Man. 
And  at  that  brave  sight  poor  old  Chaise — who  jumbled  in  his  dis- 
traught brain  the  idea  of  Adam's  late  position  with  that  of  his 
master  the  Duke  of  Athol,  and  saw  nothing  but  that  this  gentleman, 
in  his  fine  rigging,  was  come  in  Adam's  place,  and  was  even  now 
on  his  way  to  Castletown  to  take  possession  of  Government  House, 
and  that  the  bellowing  mob  that  not  a  month  before  had  doffed  their 
caps  before  Adam's  face,  now  shoved  him  off  the  pavement  without 
seeing  him — stamped  and  raved  and  shook  his  fist  over  the  people, 
as  if  he  would  brain  them. 

They  slept  at  Onchan  that  night,  and  next  day  they  reached 
Kirk  Maughold.  And  coming  on  the  straggling  old  house  at 
Lague,  after  so  long  an  absence,  Adam  was  visibly  moved,  saying 
he  had  seen  many  a  humiliation  since  the  days  when  he  lived  in  it, 
and  might  the  Lord  make  them  profitable  to  his  soul ;  but  only  let 
it  please  God  to  grant  him  peace  and  content  and  daily  bread,  and 
there  should  be  no  more  going  hence  in  the  years  that  were  left 
to  him. 

At  that  Greeba  felt  a  tingling  on  both  sides  of  her  heart,  for  her 
fears  were  many  of  the  welcome  that  awaited  them. 

It  was  nigh  upon  noon,  and  the  men  were  out  in  the  fields ;  but 
Mrs.  Fairbrother  was  at  home,  and  she  saw  the  three  when  they 
opened  the  gate  and  came  down  under  the  elms. 

"Now,  I  thought  as  much,"  she  said  within  herself,  "and  I  war- 
rant I  know  their  errand." 

Adam  entered  the  house  with  what  cheer  of  face  he  could  com- 
mand, being  hard  set  to  keep  back  his  tears,  and  hailed  his  wife  in 
a  jovial  tone,  although  his  voice  threatened  to  break,  and  sat  him- 
self down  in  his  old  seat  by  the  chimney  corner,  with  his  blackthorn 
stick  between  his  knees  and  his  hands  resting  upon  it.  But  Mrs. 
Fairbrother  made  no  answer  to  his  greeting,  and  only  glanced  from 
him  to  Greeba,  who  tripped  softly  behind  him,  and  from  Greeba  to 
Chaise,  who  came  shambling  in  after  them,  vacantly  scratching 
his  uncovered  head.  Then,  drawing  herself  up,  and  holding  back 


THE   BONDMAN  in 

her  skirts,  she  said  very  coldly,  while  her  wrinkled  face  twitched: 

"And  pray  -what  ill  wind  blows  you  here  ?" 

"An  ill  wind  indeed,  Ruth,"  Adam  answered,  "for  it  is  the  wind 
of  adversity.  You  must  have  heard  of  our  misfortune  since  the 
whole  island  knows  it.  Well,  it  is  not  for  me  to  complain,  for 
God  shapes  our  ways,  and  He  knows  what  is  best.  But  I  am  an 
old  man  now,  Ruth,  little  able  to  look  to  myself,  still  less  to  another, 
and — " 

While  he  spoke,  Mrs.  Fairbrother  tapped  her  foot  impatiently, 
and  then  broke  in  with — 

"Cut  it  short,  sir.     What  do  you  want?" 

Adam  lifted  his  eyes  with  a  stupefied  look,  and  answered  very 
quietly:  "I  want  to  come  home,  Ruth." 

"Home !"  cried  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  sharply.  "And  what  home 
if  you  please?" 

Adam  sat  agape  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  speaking  as  calmly 
as  before,  "What  home,  Ruth?  Why,  what  home  but  this?" 

"This,  indeed !    This  is  not  your  home,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother. 

"Not  my  home !"  said  Adam,  slowly,  dropping  back  in  his  seat 
like  one  who  is  dumfounded. 

"Not  my  home!  Did  you  say  that  this  was  not  my  home?"  he 
said,  suddenly  bracing  up.  "Why,  woman,  I  was  born  here ;  so 
was  my  father  before  me,  and  my  father's  father  before  him.  Five 
generations  of  my  people  have  lived  and  died  here,  and  the  very 
roof  rafters  over  your  head  must  know  us." 

"Hoity-toity!"  cried  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  "and  if  you  had  lived 
here  much  longer  not  a  rafter  of  them  all  would  have  been  left  to 
shelter  us.  No,  sir.  I've  kept  the  roof  on  this  house,  and  it  is 
mine." 

"It  is  yours  indeed,"  said  Adam  slowlyy  "for  I  gave  it  you." 

"You  gave  it  me !"  cried  Mrs.  Fairbrother.  "Say,  I  took  it  as 
my  right  when  all  that  you  had  was  slipping  through  your  fingers 
like  sand,  as  everything  does  that  ever  touches  them." 

At  that  hard  word  old  Adam  drew  himself  up  with  a  great 
dignity  of  bearing,  and  said : 

"There  is  one  thing  that  has  indeed  slipped  through  my  fingers 
like  sand,  and  that  is  the  fidelity  of  the  woman  who  swore  before 
God  forty  and  odd  years  ago  to  love  and  honor  me." 

"Crinkleum-crankum !'  cried  Mrs.  Fairbrother.  "A  pretty 
thing,  truly,  that  I  should  toil  and  moil  at  my  age  to  keep  house  and 
home  together  ready  and  waiting  for  you,  when  your  zany  doings 
have  shut  every  other  door  against  you.  Misfortunes,  indeed!  A 
fine  name  for  your  mistakes !" 


H2  THE    BONDMAN 

"I  may  have  made  mistakes,  madam,"  said  Adam;  "but  true  it 
is,  as  the  wise  man  has  said,  that  he  who  has  never  made  mistakes 
has  never  made  anything." 

"Tush !"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother. 

"Ruth,  do  you  refuse  to  take  me  in?"  said  Adam. 

"This  house  is  mine,"  said  she ;  "mine  by  law  and  deed,  as  tight 
as  wax  can  make  it." 

"Do  you  refuse  to  take  me  in?"  said  Adam  again,  rising  to 
his  feet. 

"You  have  brought  ruin  on  yourself  by  your  shilly-shally  and 
vain  folly,"  said  she ;  "and  now  you  think  to  pat  your  nose  and  say 
your  prayers  by  my  fireside." 

"Ruth,"  said  Adam  once  more,  "do  you  refuse  to  take  me  in  ?" 

"Yes,  and  that  I  do,"  said  she.  "You  would  beggar  me  as  you 
have  beggared  yourself,  but  that  I  warrant  you  never  shall." 

Then  there  was  a  grim  silence  for  a  moment.  Old  Adam 
gripped  convulsively  the  staff  he  leaned  on,  and  all  but  as  loud  as 
the  ticking  of  the  clock  was  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

"God  give  me  patience,"  he  said.  "Yes,  I'll  bear  it  meekly. 
Ruth,"  he  said,  huskily,  "I'll  not  trouble  you.  Make  yourself  sure 
of  that.  While  there's  a  horse-wallet  to  hang  on  my  old  shoulders, 
and  a  bit  of  barley  bread  to  put  in  it,  I'll  rove  the  country  round,  but 
I'll  never  come  on  my  knees  to  you  and  say,  'I  am  your  husband, 
I  gave  you  all  you  had,  and  you  are  rich  and  I'm  a  beggar,  and  I 
am  old — give  me  for  charity  my  bed  and  board.'  " 

But  unable  to  support  any  longer  the  strife  for  mastery  that  was 
tearing  at  his  heart,  he  gave  way  to  his  wrath,  and  cried  out  in  a 
loud  voice,  "Out  on  you,  woman !  Out  on  you !  God  forgive  me 
the  evil  day  I  set  eyes  on  you !  God  forgive  me  the  damned  day 
I  took  you  to  my  breast  to  rend  it." 

While  this  had  been  going  forward  Greeba  had  stood  silent  at 
the  back  of  her  father's  chair,  with  eyelashes  quivering  and  the 
fingers  of  both  hands  clenched  together.  But  now  she  stepped  for- 
ward and  said:  "Forgive  him,  mother.  Do  not  be  angry  with  him. 
He  will  be  sorry  for  what  he  has  said :  I'm  sure  he  will.  But  only 
think,  dear  mother:  he  is  in  great,  great  trouble,  and  he  is  past 
work,  and  if  this  is  not  his  home,  then  he  is  homeless." 

And  at  the  sound  of  that  pleading  voice  Adam's  wrath  turned 
in  part  to  tenderness,  and  he  dropped  back  to  the  chair  and  began 
to  weep. 

"I  am  ashamed  of  my  tears,  child."  he  said;  "but  they  are  not 
shed  for  myself.  Nor  did  I  come  here  for  my  own  sake,  though 
your  mother  thinks  I  did.  No,  child,  no;  say  no  more.  I'll  repent 


THE   BONDMAN  113 

me  of  nothing  I  have  said  to  her — no,  not  one  word.  She  is  a  hard, 
a  cruel  woman ;  but,  thank  Heaven,  I  have  my  sons  left  to  me  yet. 
She  is  not  flesh  of  my  flesh,  though  one  with  me  in  wedlock;  but 
they  are,  and  they  will  never  see  their  father  turned  from  the 
door." 

At  that  instant  three  of  the  six  Fairbrothers,  Asher,  Ross,  and 
Thurstan,  came  in  from  the  stackyard,  with  the  smell  of  the  furze- 
rick  upon  them  that  they  had  been  trimming  for  the  cattle.  And 
Adam,  without  waiting  to  explain,  cried  in  the  fervor  of  his  emo- 
tion, "This  is  not  your  will,  Asher?"  Whereupon  Asher,  without 
any  salutation,  answered  him,  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  sir," 
and  turned  aside. 

"He  has  damned  your  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  with  her 
morning  apron  to  her  eyes,  "and  cursed  the  day  he  married  her." 

"But  she  is  turning  me  out  of  the  house,"  said  Adam.  "This 
house — my  father's  house." 

"Ask  her  pardon,  sir,"  Asher  muttered,  "and  she  will  take  you 
back." 

"Her  pardon !    God  in  heaven !"  Adam  cried. 

"You  are  an  old  man  now,  sir,"  said  Thurstan. 

"So  I  am;  so  I  am,"  said  Adam. 

"And  you  are  poor  as  well." 

"That's  true,  Thurstan;  that's  true,  though  your  brother  for- 
gets it." 

"So  you  should  not  hold  your  head  too  high." 

"What!  Are  you  on  her  side,  also?  Asher,  Thurstan,  Ross, 
you  are  my  sons — would  you  see  me  turned  out  of  the  house  ?" 

The  three  men  hung  their  heads.  "What  mother  says  he  must 
agree  to,"  muttered  Asher. 

"But  I  gave  you  all  I  had,"  said  Adam.  "If  I  am  old  I  am 
your  father,  and  if  I  am  poor  you  know  best  who  made  me  so." 

"We  are  poor,  too,  sir;  we  have  nothing,  and  we  do  not  forget 
who  is  to  blame  for  it,"  Thurstan  growled. 

"You  gave  everything  away  from  us,"  grumbled  Ross.;  "and, 
because  your  bargain  is  a  rue  bargain,  you  want  us  now  to  stand 
aback  of  you." 

And  Stean  and  Jacob  and  John  coming  in  at  that  moment, 
Jacob  said,  very  slyly,  with  something  like  a  sneer: 

"Ah,  yes,  and  who  took  the  side  of  a  stranger  against  his  own 
children?  What  of  your  good  Michael  Sunlocks  now,  sir?  Is  he 
longing  for  you?  Or  have  you  never  had  the  scribe  of  a  line  from 
him  since  he  turned  his  back  on  you,  four  years  ago  ?" 

Then  Greeba's  eyes  flashed  with  anger.    "For  shame,"  she  cried, 


u4  THE   BONDMAN 

"for  shame !  Oh,  you  mean,  pitiful  men,  to  bait  and  badger  him 
like  this." 

Jacob  threw  up  his  head  and  laughed,  and  Mrs.  Fairbrother 
said:  "Chut,  girl,  you're  waxing  apace  with  your  big  words  con- 
sidering you're  a  chit  that  has  wasted  her  days  in  London  and 
hasn't  learned  to  muck  a  byre  yet." 

Adam  did  not  hear  her.  He  sat  like  a  man  who  is  stunned  by 
a  heavy  blow.  "Not  for  myself,"  he  mumbled,  "no,  not  for  myself, 
though  they  all  think  it."  Then  he  turned  to  his  sons  and  said: 
"You  think  I  came  to  beg  for  bed  and  board  for  myself,  but  you  are 
wrong.  I  came  to  demand  it  for  the  girl.  I  may  have  no  claim 
upon  you,  but  she  has,  for  she  is  one  with  you  all  and  can  ask  for 
her  own.  She  has  no  home  with  her  father  now,  for  it  seems  that 
he  has  none  for  himself ;  but  her  home  is  here,  and  here  I  mean  to 
leave  her." 

"Not  so  fast,  sir,"  said  John.  "All  she  can  ever  claim  is  what 
may  one  day  be  hers  when  we  ourselves  come  into  anything. 
Meantime,  like  her  brothers,  she  has  nothing  but  what  she  works 
for." 

"Works  for,  you  wagtail !"  cried  Adam ;  "she  is  a  woman ! 
Do  you  hear? — a  woman?" 

"Woman  or  man,  where's  the  difference  here?"  said  Gentleman 
John,  and  he  snapped  his  fingers. 

"Where's  the  difference,  you  jackanapes?  Do  you  ask  me 
where's  the  difference  here?  Here?  In  grace,  in  charity,  in 
unselfishness,  in  faith  in  the  good;  in  fidelity  to  the  true,  in  filial 
love  and  duty !  There's  the  difference,  you  jackanapes." 

"You  are  too  old  to  quarrel  with,  sir;  I  will  spare  you,"  said 
Gentleman  John. 

"Spare  me,  you  whipper-snapper!  You  will  spare  me!  But 
oh,  let  me  have  patience !  If  I  have  cursed  the  day  I  first  saw  my 
wife  let  me  not  also  curse  the  hour  when  she  first  bore  me  children 
and  my  heart  was  glad.  Asher,  you  are  my  first-born,  and  Heaven 
knows  what  you  were  to  me.  You  will  not  stand  by  and  listen 
to  this.  She  is  your  sister,  my  son.  Think  of  it — your  only 
sister." 

Asher  twisted  about,  where  he  sat  by  the  window  nook,  pre- 
tending to  doze,  and  said:  "The  girl  is  nothing  to  me.  She  is 
nothing  to  any  of  us.  She  has  been  with  you  all  the  days  of  her 
life  except  such  as  you  made  her  to  spend  with  strangers.  She  is 
no  sister  of  ours." 

Then  Adam  turned  to  Ross.  "And  do  you  say  the  same?"  he 
asked. 


THE   BONDMAN  115 

"What  can  she  do  here  ?"  said  Ross.  "Nothing.  This  is  no  place 
for  your  great  ladies.  We  work,  here,  every  man  and  woman  of 
us,  from  daylight  to  dark,  in  the  fields  and  the  dairy.  Best  send 
her  back  to  her  fine  friends  in  London." 

"Ay,"  said  Jacob,  glancing  up  with  a  brazen  smile  into  Greeba's 
face,  "or  marry  her  straight  off — that  is  the  shortest  way.  I  heard 
a  little  bird  tell  of  some  one  who  might  have  her.  Don't  look  as- 
tonished, Miss,  for  I  make  no  doubt  you  know  who  it  is.  He  is 
away  on  the  mountains  now,  but  he'll  be  home  before  long." 

Greeba's  eyes  glistened,  but  not  a  muscle  of  her  countenance 
changed.  Only  she  clutched  at  the  back  of  her  father's  chair  and 
clung  to  it.  And  Adam,  struggling  hard  to  master  the  emotion  that 
made  his  whole  body  to  sway  and  tremble  in  his  seat,  said  slowly : 
"If  she  is  not  your  sister,  at  least  she  is  your  mother's  daughter, 
and  a  mother  knows  what  that  means."  Then  turning  to  Mrs. 
Fairbrother,  who  still  stood  apart  with  her  housewife's  apron 
to  her  eyes,  he  said:  "Ruth,  the  child  is  your  daughter,  and  by 
that  deed  you  speak  of  she  is  entitled  to  her  share  of  all  that 
is  here — " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  sharply,  "but  only  when  I  am 
done  wfth  it." 

"Even  so,"  said  Adam,  "would  you  see  the  child  want  before 
that,  or  drive  her  into  any  marriage,  no  matter  what  ?" 

"I  will  take  her,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother  deliberately,  "on  one 
condition." 

"What  it  is,  Ruth  ?"  said  Adam ;  "name  it,  that  I  may  grant  it." 

"That  you  shall  give  up  all  control  of  her,  and  that  she  shall 
give  up  all  thought  of  you." 

"What?" 

"That  you  shall  never  again  expect  to  see  her  or  hear  from  her, 
or  hold  commerce  of  any  kind  with  her." 

"But  why?    Why?" 

"Because  I  may  have  certain  plans  for  her  future  welfare  that 
you  might  try  to  spoil." 

"Do  they  concern  Michael  Sunlocks?" 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  with  a  toss  of  the  head. 

"Then  they  concern  young  Jason,  the  Icelander,"  said  Adam. 

"If  so,  it  is  my  concern,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother. 

"And  that  is  your  condition?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  ask  me  to  part  from  her  forever  ?  Think  of  it,  she  is 
my  only  daughter.  She  has  been  the  light  of  my  eyes.  You  have 
never  loved  her  as  I  have  loved  her.  You  know  it  is  the  truth. 


ii6  THE   BONDMAN 

And  you  ask  me  to  see  her  no  more,  and  never  more  to  hear  from 
her.  Now,  God  punish  you  for  this,  you  cold-hearted  woman !" 

"Take  care,  sir.  Fewer  words,  or  mayhap  I  will  recall  my 
offer.  If  you  are  wise  you  will  be  calm  for  the  girl's  sake." 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  with  his  head  down.  "It  is  not  for  me 
to  take  the  bread  out  of  my  child's  mouth.  She  shall  choose  for 
herself." 

Then  he  twisted  about  to  where  Greeba  stood  in  silence  behind 
his  chair.  "Greeba,"  he  said,  with  a  world  of  longing  in  his  eyes, 
"my  darling,  you  see  how  it  is.  I  am  old  and  very  poor,  and,  Heaven 
pity  my  blind  folly,  I  have  no  home  to  offer  you,  for  I  have  none 
to  shelter  my  own  head.  Don't  fear  for  me,  for  I  have  no  fear  for 
myself.  I  will  be  looked  to  in  the  few  days  that  remain  to  me, 
and,  come  what  may,  the  sorry  race  of  my  foolish  life  will  soon  be 
over.  But  you  have  made  no  mistakes  that  merit  my  misfortunes. 
So  choose,  my  child,  choose.  It  is  poverty  with  me  or  plenty  with 
your  mother.  Choose,  my  child,  choose ;  and  let  it  be  quickly,  let 
it  be  quickly,  for  my  old  heart  is  bursting." 

Then  the  brave  girl  drew  herself  proudly  up,  her  brilliant  eyes 
aflame,  and  her  whole  figure  erect  and  quivering. 

"Choose?"  she  cried,  in  a  piercing  voice;  "there  is  no  choice. 
I  will  go  with  my  father,  and  follow  him  over  the  world,  though 
we  have  no  covering  but  the  skies  above  us." 

And  then  Adam  leaped  from  his  chair  to  his  feet,  and  the 
infirmity  of  his  years  seemed  gone  in  an  instant,  and  his  wet  face 
shone  with  the  radiance  of  a  great  joy.  "Do  you  hear  that,  you  peo- 
ple?" he  cried.  "There's  grace,  and  charity,  and  unselfishness,  and 
love  left  in  the  world  still.  Thank  Heaven,  I  have  not  yet  to  curse 
the  day  her  body  brought  forth  children.  Come,  Greeba,  we  will  go 
our  ways,  and  God's  protection  will  go  with  us.  'I  have  been 
young  and  now  am  old,  yet  have  I  not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken, 
nor  his  seed  begging  bread.'  " 

He  strode  across  to  the  door,  then  stopped  and  looked  back  to 
where  his  sons  stood  together  with  the  looks  of  whipped  dogs. 

"And  you,  you  unnatural  sons,"  he  cried,  "I  cast  you  out  of  my 
mind.  I  give  you  up  to  your  laziness  and  drunkenness  and  vain 
pleasures.  I  am  going  to  one  who  is  not  flesh  of  my  flesh,  and 
yet  he  is  my  son  indeed." 

Again  he  made  for  the  door,  and  stopped  on  the  threshold,  and 
faced  about  toward  his  wife.  "As  for  you,  woman,  your  time  will 
come.  Remember  that!  Remember  that!" 

Greeba  laid  one  hand  softly  on  his  shoulder  and  said:  "Come, 
father,  come,"  but  again  he  looked  back  at  his  sons  and  said :  "Fare- 


THE   BONDMAN  117 

well,  all  of  you !  Farewell  !  You  will  see  me  no  more.  May  a  day 
like  this  that  has  come  to  your  father  never,  never  come  to  you." 

And  then  all  his  brave  bearing,  his  grand  strength,  broke  down 
in  a  moment,  and  as  the  girl  laid  hold  of  his  arm,  lest  he  should  reel 
and  fall,  he  stumbled  out  at  the  threshold,  sobbing  beneath  his 
breath :  "Sunlocks,  my  boy ;  Sunlocks,  I  am  coming  to  you — I  am 
coming  to  you." 

Chaise  A'Killey  followed  them  out,  muttering  in  an  under- 
breath  some  deep  imprecations  that  no  one  heeded.  "Strange," 
said  he,  "the  near  I  was  to  crucifying  the  Lord  afresh  and  swearing 
a  mortal  swear,  only  I  remembered  my  catechism  and  the  good 
John  Wesley." 

At  the  gate  to  the  road  they  met  Jason,  who  was  coming  down 
from  Barrule  with  birds  at  his  belt.  With  bewildered  looks  Jason 
stood  and  looked  at  them  as  they  came  up,  a  sorry  spectacle,  in  the 
brightness  of  the  midday  sun.  Old  Adam  himself  strode  heavily 
along,  with  his  face  turned  down  and  his  white  hair  falling  over 
his  cheeks.  By  his  side  Greeba  walked,  bearing  herself  as  proudly 
as  she  might,  with  her  head  thrown  back  and  her  wet  eyes  trying 
hard  to  smile.  A  pace  or  two  behind  came  Chaise,  with  his  pony 
and  cart,  grunting  hoarsely  in  his  husky  throat.  Not  a  word  of 
greeting  did  they  give  to  Jason,  and  he  asked  for  no  explanation, 
for  he  saw  it  all  after  a  moment:  they  being  now  homeless  had 
drifted  back  to  their  old  home  and  had  just  been  turned  away  from 
it.  And  not  a  word  of  pity  did  he  on  his  part  dare  to  offer  them, 
but  in  the  true  sympathy  of  silence  he  stepped  up  to  Adam  and 
gave  him  his  strong  arm  to  lean  upon,  and  then  turned  himself 
about  to  go  their  way. 

They  took  the  road  to  Ramsey,  and  little  was  said  by  any  of 
them  throughout  the  long  two  miles  of  the  journey,  save  only-fey 
Chaise,  who  never  ceased  to  mutter  dark  sayings  to  himself,  whereof 
the  chief  were  praises  to  God  for  delivering  them  without  loss  of 
life  or  limb  or  hand  or  even  out  of  a  den  of  lions,  for,  thanks  be 
to  the  Lord !  He  had  drawn  their  teeth. 

Now  though  the  world  is  hard  enough  on  a  good  man  in  the 
hour  of  his  trouble,  there  are  ever  more  tender  hearts  to  com- 
passionate his  distresses  than  bitter  ones  to  triumph  over  his  ad- 
versity, and  when  Adam  Fairbrother  came  to  Ramsey  many  a  door 
was  thrown  open  to  him  by  such  as  were  mindful  of  his  former 
state  and  found  nothing  in  his  fall  to  merit  their  resentment.  No 
hospitality  would  he  accept,  however,  but  took  up  his  abode  with 
Greeba  in  a  little  lodging  in  the  market-place,  with  its  face  to  the 
cross  and  its  back  toward  the  sea.  And  being  safely  housed  there, 


ng  THE   BONDMAN 

he  thanked  Jason  at  the  door  for  the  help  of  his  strong  arm,  and 
bade  him  come  again  at  ten  o'clock  that  night,  if  so  be  that  he  was 
in  the  way  of  doing  a  last  service  for  a  poor  soul  who  might  never 
again  have  it  in  his  power  to  repay.  "I'll  come  back  at  ten,"  said 
Jason,  simply,  and  so  he  left  them  for  the  present. 

And  when  he  was  gone  Adam  said  to  Greeba  as  he  turned  in- 
doors: "A  fine  lad  that,  and  as  simple  as  a  child,  but  woe  to  the 
man  who  deceives  him.  Ay,  or  to  the  woman  either.  But  you'll 
never  do  it,  girl ?  Eh?  Never?  Never?" 

"Why,  father,  what  can  you  mean?  Are  we  not  going  away 
together?"  said  Geeba. 

"True,  child,  true,"  said  Adam ;  and  so  without  further  answer 
to  her  question,  twice  repeated,  he  passed  with  her  into  the 
house. 

But  Adam  had  his  meaning  as  well  as  his  reason  for  hiding  it. 
Through  the  silent  walk  from  Lague  he  had  revolved  their  position 
and  come  to  a  fixed  resolution  concerning  it.  In  the  heat  of  his 
emotion  it  had  lifted  up  his  heart  that  Greeba  had  chosen  poverty 
with  him  before  plenty  with  her  mother  and  her  brothers,  but  when 
his  passion  had  cooled  he  rebuked  himself  for  permitting  her  to  do 
so.  What  right  had  he  to  drag  her  through  the  slough  of  his  own 
necessities!  He  was  for  going  away,  not  knowing  the  fate  that 
was  before  him,  but  on  what  plea  made  to  his  conscience  dare  he 
take  her  with  him?  He  was  old,  his  life  was  behind  him,  and, 
save  herself,  he  had  no  ties.  What  did  it  matter  to  him  how  his 
struggle  should  end?  But  she  was  young,  she  was  beautiful,  she 
might  form  new  friendships;  the  world  was  before  her,  the  world 
might  yet  be  at  her  feet,  and  life,  so  sweet  and  so  sad,  and  yet  so 
good  a  thing  withal,  was  ready  and  waiting  for  her. 

Once  he  thought  of  Michael  Sunlocks,  and  that  the  arms  that 
would  be  open  to  himself  in  that  distant  land  would  not  be  closed 
to  Greeba.  And  once  he  thought  of  Jason,  and  that  to  leave  her 
behind  was  to  help  the  schemes  that  would  bring  them  together.  But 
put  it  as  he  would,  no  farther  could  he  get  than  this,  that  she  must 
stay,  and  he  must  go  away  alone. 

Yet,  knowing  the  strength  of  her  purpose,  he  concealed  his  in- 
tention, and  his  poor  bewildered  old  head  went  about  its  work 
of  preparation  very  artfully.  It  was  Friday,  and  still  not  far  past 
noon,  when  they  reached  their  lodging  by  the  cross.  After  a  hasty 
meal  he  set  out  into  the  town,  leaving  Greeba  to  rest,  for  she  had 
walked  far  since  early  morning.  At  the  quay  he  inquired  the  date 
of  a  vessel  that  called  there  sometimes  in  summer  on  its  passage 
from  Ireland  to  Iceland,  and  to  his  surprise  he  found  that  she  was 


THE   BONDMAN  119 

even  then  in  the  harbor,  and  would  go  out  with  the  first  tide  of 
the  next  day,  which  would  flow  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Thereupon  he  engaged  his  berth,  and  paid  for  his  passage.  It 
cost  six  pounds,  besides  a  daily  charge  of  four  shillings  for  rations. 
The  trip  was  calculated  to  last  one  month  with  fair  wind  and 
weather,  such  as  then  promised.  Adam  counted  the  cost,  and  saw 
that  with  all  present  debts  discharged,  and  future  ones  considered, 
he  might  have  somewhat  between  six  and  seven  pounds  in  his 
pocket  when  he  set  foot  in  Reykjavik.  Being  satisfied  with  this 
prospect,  he  went  to  the  High  Bailiff  for  his  license  to  leave  the 
island. 

Greeba  had  heard  nothing  of  this,  and  as  soon  as  night  fell  in 
she  went  up  to  bed  at  her  father's  entreaty.  Her  room  was  at  the 
back  of  the  house  and  looked  out  over  the  sea,  and  there  she  saw 
the  young  moon  rise  over  the  waters  as  she  undressed  and  lay 
down  to  sleep. 

Prompt  to  his  hour  Jason  came,  and  then  Adam  told  him  all. 

"I  am  going  away,"  he  said,  "far  away,  indeed  into  your  own 
country.  I  go  to-night,  though  my  daughter,  who  is  asleep,  knows 
nothing  of  my  intention.  Will  you  do  me  a  service?" 

"Try  me,"  said  Jason. 

And  then  Adam  asked  him  to  stay  in  Ramsey  overnight,  that 
he  might  be  there  when  Greeba  came  down  in  the  morning,  to  break 
the  news  to  her  that  her  father  had  gone,  and  to  take  her  back  with 
him  to  Lague. 

"They  will  not  say  no  to  her,  seeing  her  father  is  not  with  her ; 
and  the  time  is  coming  when  she  will  hold  her  right  to  a  share 
of  all  they  have,  and  none  of  them  dare  withhold  it." 

Jason,  who  had  been  up  to  T.agnp,  ^^^ezxdofatt  that  had 
passed  there,  and  played  his  own  part,  too,  thougn^ie-T*r~. 
of  that     He  was  now  visimy  Agitated.    His  calm  strength 
him     His  eyes  were  afire,  his  face  twitched,  his  hands  trembled, 
and  he  was  plainly  struggling  to  say  what  his  quivering  lips  refusec 

"Is  there  no  other  way?"  he  asked.  "Must  she  go  back  to 
Lague?  Is  there  no  help  for  it?" 

"None,"  said  Adam ;  "for  she  is  penniless,  God  forgive  me,  and 
beggars  may  not  be  choosers." 

At  that  word  Jason  was  unable  to  support  any  longer  the  wild 
laboring  of  his  heart. 

"Yes,  yes,  but  there  is  a  way,"  he  cried,  "for  there  is  one  to 
whom  she  is  rich  enough  though  he  is  poor  himself,  for  he  would 
give  his  life's  blood  if  so  be  that  he  could  buy  her.  Many  a  day 


120  THE   BONDMAN 

he  has  seen  all  and  stood  aside  and  been  silent,  because  afraid  to 
speak,  but  he  must  speak  now,  or  never." 

Hearing  this,  Adam's  face  looked  troubled,  and  he  answered: 

"I  will  not  misdoubt  you,  my  good  lad,  or  question  whom  you 
mean." 

And  Jason's  tongue  being  loosed  at  last,  the  hot  words  came 
from  him  like  a  flood: 

"I  have  been  an  idle  fellow,  sir,  I  know  that;  good  for  nothing 
in  the  world,  any  more  than  the  beasts  of  the  field,  and  maybe  it's 
because  I've  had  nobody  but  myself  to  work  for;  but  give  me  the 
right  to  stand  beside  her  and  you  shall  see  what  I  can  do,  for  no 
brother  shall  return  her  cold  looks  for  her  sweetness,  and  never 
again  shall  she  go  back  where  she  will  only  be  despised." 

"You  are  a  brave  lad,  Jason,"  said  Adam,  as  best  he  could  for 
the  tears  that  choked  him;  "and  though  I  have  long  had  other 
thoughts  concerning  her,  yet  could  I  trust. her  to  your  love  and 
keeping  and  go  my  ways  with  content.  But  no,  no,  my  lad,  it  is  not 
for  me  to  choose  for  her;  and  neither  is  it  for  her  to  choose  now." 

Pacified  by  that  answer,  Jason  gave  his  promise  freely,  faithfully 
to  do  what  Adam  had  asked  of  him.  And  the  night  being  now 
well  worn  toward  midnight,  with  the  first  bell  of  the  vessel  rung, 
and  old  Chaise  fussing  about  in  busy  preparation,  the  time  had 
come  for  Adam  to  part  from  Greeba.  To  bid  her  farewell  was  impos- 
sible, and  to  go  away  without  doing  so  was  well-nigh  as  hard.  All 
he  could  do  was  to  look  upon  her  in  her  sleep  and  whisper  his  fare- 
well in  his  heart.  So  he  entered  on  tiptoe  the  room  where  she  lay. 
Softly  the  moon  shone  through  the  window  from  across  the  white 
sea,  and  fell  upon  the  bed.  Pausing  at  the  door,  he  listened  for  her 
breathing,  and , at  la<=«-  ^«  h^at-H  it,  for  the  night  was  very  still,  and 
onl"  !.'  '  sa  s  &entle  PIash  on  the  beach  was  the  silence  broken. 
*  reading  softly,  he  approached  the  bedside,  and  there  she  lay,  and 
the  quiet  moonlight  lay  over  her— the  dear,  dear  girl,  so  brave  and 
happy-hearted.  Her  lips  seemed  to  smile ;  perhaps  she  was  dream- 
ing. He  must  take  his  last  look  now.  Yet  no,  he  must  kiss  her 
first.  He  reached  across  and  lightly  touched  her  pure  forehead 
with  his  lips.  Then  she  moved  and  moaned  in  her  sleep,  and  then 
her  peaceful  breathing  came  again.  "Now,  peace  be  with  her," 
Adam  murmured,  "and  the  good  hand  to  guard  her  of  the  good 
Father  of  all." 

So  Adam  Fairbrother  went  his  way,  leaving  Greeba  behind  him, 
and  early  the  next  morning  Jason  took  her  back  to  Lague. 


THE   BONDMAN  121 


CHAPTER   III 

THE    WOOING    OF    JASON 

Now  the  one  thing  that  Jason  did  not  tell  to  Adam  Fairbrother 
was  that,  on  hearing  from  Jacob,  as  spokesman  of  his  brothers, 
the  story  of  their  treatment  of  Greeba  and  their  father,  he  had 
promised  to  break  every  bone  in  their  six  worthless  bodies,  and 
vowed  never  to  darken  their  door  again.  His  vow  he  could  not 
keep  if  he  were  also  to  keep  his  word  with  Adam,  and  he  deferred 
the  fulfilment  of  his  promise ;  but  from  that  day  he  left  Lague  as  a 
home,  and  pitched  his  tent  with  old  Davy  Kerruish  in  Maughold 
village,  at  a  little  cottage  by  the  Sundial  that  stood  by  the  gates  of 
the  church.  Too  old  for  the  sea,  and  now  too  saintly  for  smuggling, 
Davy  pottered  about  the  churchyard  as  gravedigger — for  Maug- 
hold had  then  no  sexton — with  a  living  of  three  and  sixpence  a 
service,  and  a  marvelously  healthy  parish.  So  the  coming  of  Jason 
to  share  bed  and  board  with  him  was  a  wild  whirl  of  the  wheel  of 
fortune,  and  straightway  he  engaged  an  ancient  body  at  ninepence 
a  week  to  cook  and  clean  for  them. 

By  this  time  Jason  had  spent  nearly  half  his  money,  for  he  had 
earned  nothing,  but  now  he  promptly  laid  his  idle  habits  aside.  No 
more  did  he  go  up  to  the  mountains,  and  no  longer  out  on  to  the 
sea.  His  nets  were  thrown  over  the  lath  of  the  ceiling,  his  decoy 
was  put  in  a  cage,  his  fowling-piece  stood  in  the  corner,  and  few 
were  the  birds  that  hung  at  his  belt.  He  was  never  seen  at  the 
"Hibernian,"  and  he  rarely  scented  up  the  house  with  tobacco 
smoke.  On  his  first  coming  he  lay  two  days  and  nights  in  bed  with- 
out food  or  sleep,  until  Davy  thought  surely  he  was  sick,  and,  willy- 
nilly,  was  for  having  his  feet  bathed  in  mustard  and  hot  water,  and 
likewise  his  stomach  in  rum  and  hot  gruel.  But  he  was  only  set- 
tling his  plans  for  the  future,  and  having  hit  on  a  scheme  he  leaped 
out  of  bed  like  a  greyhound,  plunged  his  head  up  to  the  neck  in  a 
bucket  of  cold  water,  came  out  of  it  with  gleaming  eyes,  red  cheeks, 
and  a  vapor  rising  from  his  wet  skin,  and  drying  himself  with  a 
whir  on  a  coarse  towel,  he  laid  hold  with  both  hands  of  a  chunk 
of  the  last  hare  he  had  snared,  and  munched  it  in  vast  mouthfuls. 

"Davy,"  he  cried,  with  the  white  teeth  still  going,  "are  there 
many  corn  mills  this  side  of  the  island?" 

"Och,  no,  boy,"  said  Davy;  "but  scarce  as  fresh  herrings  at 
Christmas." 

6  VoL  II. 


122  THE   BONDMAN 

"Any  mill  nearer  than  old  Moore's  at  Sulby,  and  Carlow's 
wife's  down  at  Laxey?" 

"Aw,  no,  boy,  the  like  of  them  isn't  in." 

"Any  call  for  them  nearer,  Davy?" 

"Aw  'deed,  yes,  boy,  yes;  and  the  farmer  men  alwis  keen  for 
one  in  Maughold,  too.  Ay,  yes,  keen,  boy,  keen;  and  if  a  man 
was  after  building  one  here  they'd  be  thinking  diamonds  of 
him." 

"Then  why  hasn't  somebody  set  up  a  mill  before  now,  Davy?" 

"Well,  boy,  ye  see  a  Manxman  is  just  the  cleverest  of  all  the 
people  goin'  at  takin'  things  aisy.  Aw,  clever  at  it,  boy,  clever!" 

There  is  a  full  stream  of  water  that  tumbles  into  the  sea  over 
the  brows  of  Port-y-Vullin,  after  singing  its  way  down  from  the 
heights  of  Barrule.  Jason  had  often  marked  it  as  he  came  and 
went  from  the  hut  of  Stephen  Orry  that  contained  his  stuffed  birds, 
and  told  himself  what  a  fine  site  it  was  for  anybody  that  wanted  to 
build  a  water  mill.  He  remembered  it  now  with  a  freshened  in- 
terest, and  bowling  away  to  Mrs.  Fairbrother  at  Lague  for  the  pur- 
chase of  a  rod  of  the  land  that  lay  between  the  road  and  the  beach, 
to  the  Bailiff  for  the  right  of  water,  and  to  old  Coobragh  for  the 
hire  of  a  cart  to  fetch  stones  from  the  screes  where  the  mountains 
quarried  them,  he  was  soon  in  the  thick  of  his  enterprise. 

He  set  the  carpenter  to  work  at  his  wheel,  the  smith  at  his  axle, 
and  the  mason  at  his  stones,  but  for  the  walls  and  roof  of  the 
mill  itself  he  had  no  help  but  old  Davy's.  Early  and  late,  from 
dawn  to  dusk,  he  worked  at  his  delving  and  walling,  and  when 
night  fell  in  he  leaned  over  the  hedge  and  smoked  and  measured 
out  with  his  eye  the  work  he  meant  to  do  next  day.  When  his 
skill  did  not  keep  pace  with  his  ardor  he  lay  a  day  in  bed  thinking 
hard,  and  then  got  up  and  worked  yet  harder.  In  less  than  two 
months  he  had  his  first  roof-timbers  well  and  safely  pitched,  and  if 
he  went  no  farther  it  was  because  the  big  hope  wherewith  his  sim- 
ple heart  had  been  buoyed  up  came  down  with  a  woful  crash. 

"Aw,  smart  and  quick,  astonishin',"  said  old  Davy  of  Jason  to 
Mrs.  Fairbrother  at  Lague.  "Aw  'deed,  yes,  and  clever  too,  and 
steady  still.  The  way  he  works  them  walls  is  grand.  I'll  go  bail 
the  farming  men  will  be  thinking  diamonds  of  him  when  he  makes 
a  start." 

"And  then  I  wouldn't  doubt  but  he'll  be  in  the  way  of  making 
a  fortune,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother. 

"I  wouldn't  trust,  I  wouldn't  trust,"  said  Davy. 

"And  he'll  be  thinking  of  marrying,  I  suppose.  Isn't  he,  Davy  ?" 
said  Mrs.  Fairbrother. 


THE   BONDMAN  123 

"Marrying,  is  it  ?"  said  Davy ;  "aw,  divil  a  marry,  ma'am.  The 
boy's  innocent.  Aw,  yes,  innocent  as  a  baby." 

Mrs.  Fairbrother  had  her  own  good  reasons  for  thinking  other- 
wise, though  Jason  came  to  Lague  but  rarely.  So  with  hint  and 
innuendo  she  set  herself  to  see  how  Greeba  stood  toward  the  future 
she  had  planned  for  her.  And  Greeba  was  not  slow  to  see  her 
mother's  serious  drift  under  many  a  playful  speech.  She  had 
spent  cheerful  hours  at  Lague  since  the  sad  surprise  that  brought 
her  back.  Little  loth  for  the  life  of  the  farm,  notwithstanding 
Ross's  judgment,  she  had  seemed  to  fall  into  its  ways  with  content. 
Her  mother's  hints  touched  her  not  at  all,  for  she  only  laughed  at 
them  with  a  little  of  her  old  gaiety;  but  one  day  within  the  first 
weeks  she  met  Jason,  and  then  she  felt  troubled.  He  was  very 
serious,  and  spoke  only  of  what  he  was  doing,  but  before  his  grave 
face  her  gay  friendliness  broke  down  in  an  instant. 

Hurrying  home,  she  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Michael 
Sunlocks.  Never  a  word  had  she  heard  from  him  since  he  left  the 
island  four  years  ago,  so  she  made  excuse  of  her  father's  going 
away  to  cover  her  unmaidenly  act,  and  asked  him  to  let  her  know 
if  her  father  had  arrived,  and  how  he  was  and  where,  with  some 
particulars  of  himself  also,  and  whether  he  meant  to  come  back 
to  the  Isle  of  Man,  or  had  quite  made  his  home  in  Iceland;  with 
many  a  sly  glance,  too,  at  her  own  condition,  such  as  her  modesty 
could  not  forbear,  but  never  a  syllable  about  Jason,  for  a  double 
danger  held  her  silent  on  that  head.  This  she  despatched  to  him, 
realizing  at  length  that  she  loved  him,  and  that  she  must  hear 
from  him  soon,  or  be  lost  to  him  forever. 

And  waiting  for  Michael's  answer  she  avoided  Jason.  If  she 
saw  him  on  the  road  she  cut  across  the  fields,  and  if  she  came  to  the 
house  she  found  something  to  take  her  out  of  the  kitchen.  He  saw 
her  purpose  quickly,  and  his  calm  eyes  saddened,  and  his  strong 
face  twitched,  but  he  did  not  flinch;  he  went  on  with  his  work, 
steadily,  earnestly,  only  with  something  less  of  heart,  something  less 
of  cheer.  Her  mother  saw  it  too,  and  then  the  playful  hints 
changed  to  angry  threats. 

"What  has  he  done?"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother. 

"Nothing,"  said  Greeba. 

"Have  you  anything  against  him?" 

"No." 

"Then  why  are  you  driving  him  from  the  house?" 

Greeba  could  make  no  answer. 

"Are  you  thinking  of  some  one  else?" 

Again  Greeba  was  silent. 


i24  THE   BONDMAN 

"I'll  beg  of  you  to  mend  your  manners,"  cried  Mrs.  Fairbrother. 
"It's  full  time  you  were  wedded  and  gone." 

"But  perhaps  I  don't  wish  to  leave  home,"  said  Greeba. 

"Tush !'  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother.  "The  lad  is  well  enough,  and 
if  he  hasn't  land  he  has  some  money,  and  is  like  to  have  more.  I'll 
give  you  a  week  to  think  of  it,  and  if  he  ever  comes  and  speaks  for 
you  I'll  ask  you  to  give  him  his  civil  answer.  You  will  be  three 
and  twenty  come  Martinmas,  and  long  before  your  mother  was  as 
old  as  that  she  had  a  couple  of  your  brothers  to  fend  for." 

"Some  of  my  brothers  are  nearly  twice  my  age,  and  you  don't 
ask  them  to  marry,"  said  Greeba. 

"That's  a  different  matter,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother. 

It  turned  out  that  the  week  was  more  than  enough  to  settle 
the  difference  between  Greeba  and  her  mother,  for  in  less  time 
than  that  Mrs.  Fairbrother  was  stricken  down  by  a  mortal  illness. 
It  was  only  a  month  since  she  had  turned  Adam  from  her  door, 
but  her  time  was  already  at  hand,  and  more  than  he  predicted  had 
come  to  pass.  She  had  grown  old  without  knowing  a  day's  illness ; 
her  body,  like  a  rocky  headland  that  gives  no  sign  of  the  seasons, 
had  only  grown  harder  every  year,  with  a  face  more  deeply  seamed ; 
but  when  she  fell  it  was  at  one  blow  of  life's  ocean.  Three  little 
days  she  had  lost  appetite,  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  she 
had  found  a  fever  in  a  neglected  cattle  trough  that  had  drained  into 
the  well,  and  before  night  she  had  taken  her  death-warrant. 

She  knew  the  worst,  and  faced  it,  but  her  terror  was  abject. 
Sixty-five  years  she  had  scraped  and  scratched,  but  her  time  was 
come.  She  had  thought  of  nothing  save  her  treasure,  and  there  it 
lay,  yet  it  brought  her  no  solace. 

Two  days  she  tossed  in  agony,  remembering  the  past,  and  the 
price  she  had  paid,  and  made  others  to  pay,  for  all  that  she  had 
held  so  dear  and  must  leave  so  soon,  for  now  it  was  nothing  worth. 
Then  she  sent  for  the  parson,  Parson  Cell,  who  was  still  living,  but 
very  old.  The  good  man  came,  thinking  his  mission  was  spiritual 
comfort,  but  Mrs.  Fairbrother  would  hear  nothing  of  that.  As  she 
had  lived  without  God  in  the  world,  even  so  did  she  intend  to  die. 
But  some  things  that  had  gone  amiss  with  her  in  her  eager  race 
after  riches  she  was  minded  to  set  right  before  her  time  came  to  go. 
In  lending  she  had  charged  too  high  an  interest ;  in  paying  she  had 
withheld  too  much  for  money;  in  seizing  for  mortgage  she  had 
given  too  little  grace.  So  she  would  repay  before  it  was  too  late, 
for  Death  was  opening  her  hands. 

"Send  for  them  all,"  she  cried ;  "there's  Kinvig  of  Ballagawne, 
and  Corlett's  widow  at  Ballacreggan,  and  Quirk  of  Claughbane,  and 


THE   BONDMAN  125 

the  children  of  Joughan  the  weaver  at  Sherragh  Vane,  and  Tub- 
man  of  Ginger  Hall,  and  John-Billy-Bob  at  Cornah  Glen,  and 
that  hard  bargainer,  old  Kermode  of  Port-e-chee.  You  see,  I 
remember  them  all,  for  I  never  forget  anything.  Send  for  them, 
and  be  quick  fetching  them,  or  it'll  be  waste  of  time  for  them 
to  come." 

"I'll  do  it,  Mistress  Fairbrother,"  mumbled  the  old  parson 
through  his  toothless  gums,  "for  right  is  right,  and  justice  justice." 

"Chut !"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother. 

But  the  parson's  deaf  ears  did  not  hear.  "And,  ah !"  he  said, 
"the  things  of  this  world  seem  worthless,  do  they  not,  when  we 
catch  a  glimpse  into  eternity?" 

"Less  cry  and  more  wool,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  dryly.  "I 
wouldn't  trust  but  old  as  you  are  you'd  look  with  more  love  on  a 
guinea  than  the  Gospel  calls  for." 

The  people  answered  the  parson's  summons  quickly  enough, 
and  came  to  Lague  next  morning,  the  men  in  their  rough  beavers, 
the  old  women  in  their  long  blue  cloaks,  and  they  followed  the  old 
parson  into  Mrs.  Fairbrother's  room,  whispering  among  themselves, 
some  in  a  doleful  voice,  others  in  an  eager  one,  some  with  a  cring- 
ing air,  and  others  with  an  arrogant  expression.  The  chamber  was 
darkened  by  a  heavy  curtain  over  the  window,  but  they  could  see 
Mrs.  Fairbrother  propped  up  by  pillows,  whereon  her  thin,  pinched, 
faded  face  showed  very  white.  She  had  slept  never  a  moment  of 
the  night ;  and  through  all  the  agony  of  her  body  her  mind  had  been 
busy  with  its  reckonings.  These  she  had  made  Greeba  to  set 
down  in  writing,  and  now  with  the  paper  on  the  counterpane  before 
her,  and  a  linen  bag  of  money  in  her  hand,  she  sat  ready  to  receive 
her  people.  When  they  entered  there  was  deep  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment, wherein  her  eyes  glanced  over  them,  as  they  stood  in  their 
strong  odors  of  health  around  her. 

"Where's  your  brother,  Liza  Joughan?"  she  said  to  a  young 
woman  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"Gone  off  to  'Meriky,  ma'am,"  the  girl  faltered,  "for  he  couldn't 
live  after  he  lost  the  land." 

"Where's  Quirk  of  Claughbane?"  asked  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  turn- 
ing to  the  parson. 

"The  poor  man's  gone,  sister,"  said  the  parson,  in  a  low  tone. 
"He  died  only  the  week  before  last." 

Mrs.  Fairbrother's  face  assumed  a  darker  shade,  and  she  handed 
the  paper  to  Greeba. 

"Come,  let's  have  it  over,"  she  said,  and  then,  one  by  one, 
Greeba  read  out  the  names. 


126  THE   BONDMAN 

"Daniel  Kinvig,  twelve  pounds,"  Greeba  read,  and  thereupon 
an  elderly  man  with  a  square  head  stepped  forward. 

"Kinvig,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  fumbling  the  neck  of  the  linen 
bag,  "you  borrowed  a  hundred  pounds  for  two  years,  and  I  charged 
you  twelve  per  cent.  Six  per  cent,  was  enough,  and  here  is  the 
difference  back  to  your  hand." 

So  saying,  she  counted  twelve  pound  notes  and  held  them 
out  in  her  wrinkled  fingers,  and  the  man  took  them  without  a 
word. 

"Go  on,"  she  cried,  sharply. 

"Mrs.  Corlett,  two  pounds,"  read  Greeba,  and  a  woman  in  a 
widow's  cap  and  a  long  cloak  came  up,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"Bella  Corlett,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  "when  I  took  over  Bal- 
lacreggan  for  my  unpaid  debt,  you  begged  for  the  feather  bed  your 
mother  died  on  and  the  chair  that  had  been  your  father's.  I  didn't 
give  them,  though  I  had  enough  besides,  so  here  are  two  pounds  to 
you,  and  God  forgive  me." 

The  woman  took  the  money  and  began  to  cry. 

"God  reward  you,"  she  whimpered.  "It's  in  Heaven  you'll  be 
rewarded,  ma'am." 

But  Mrs.  Fairbrother  brushed  her  aside,  with  an  angry  word  and 
a  fretful  gesture,  and  called  on  Greeba  for  the  next  name  on 
the  list. 

"Peter  Kermode,  twenty-four  pounds  ten  shillings,"  read 
Greeba,  and  a  little  old  man,  with  a  rough  head  and  a  grim,  hard, 
ugly  face,  jostled  through  the  people  about  him. 

"Kermode,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  "you  always  tried  to  cheat 
me,  as  you  try  to  cheat  everybody  else,  and  when  you  sold  me  those 
seventy  sheep  for  six  shillings  apiece  last  back  end  you  thought 
they  were  all  taking  the  rot,  and  you  lost  thirty  pounds  by  them 
and  brought  yourself  to  beggary,  and  serve  you  right,  too.  But  I 
sold  them  safe  and  sound  for  a  pound  apiece  three  days  after;  so 
here's  half  of  the  difference,  and  just  try  to  be  honest  for  the  rest 
of  your  days.  And  it  won't  be  a  long  task,  either,  for  it's  plain  to 
see  you're  not  far  from  death's  door,  and  it  isn't  worth  while  to 
be  a  blood-sucker." 

At  that  she  paused  for  breath,  and  to  press  her  lean  hand  over 
the  place  of  the  fire  in  her  chest. 

"Ye  say  thrue,  ma'am,  aw,  true,  true,"  said  the  man,  in  a 
lamentable  voice.  "And  in  the  house  of  death  it  must  be  a  great 
consolation  to  do  right.  Let's  sing  wi'  ye,  ma'am.  I'm  going  in 
the  straight  way  myself  now,  and  plase  the  Lord  I'll  backslide 


THE   BONDMAN  127 

And  while  he  counted  out  the  money  in  his  grimy  palm,  the  old 
hypocrite  was  for  striking  up  a  Ranter  hymn,  beginning : 

"Oh,  this  is  the  God  we  adore, 
Our  faithful,  unchangeable  friend." 

But  Mrs.  Fairbrother  cried  on  him  to  be  silent,  and  then  gather- 
ing strength  she  went  on  with  the  others  until  all  were  done. 
And  passing  to  each  his  money,  as  the  grasp  of  Death's  own  hand 
relaxed  the  hard  grip  of  her  tight  fingers,  she  trembled  visibly, 
held  it  out  and  drew  it  back  again,  and  held  it  out  again,  as  though 
she  were  reluctant  to  part  with  it  even  yet. 

And  when  all  was  over  she  swept  the  people  out  of  the  room 
with  a  wave  of  her  hand,  and  fell  back  to  the  bolster. 

Then  Greeba,  thinking  it  a  favorable  moment  to  plead  for  her 
father,  mentioned  his  name,  and  eyed  her  mother  anxiously.  Mrs. 
Fairbrother  seemed  not  to  hear  at  first,  and,  being  pressed,  she 
answered  wrathfully,  saying  she  had  no  pity  for  her  husband,  and 
that  not  a  penny  of  her  money  should  go  to  him. 

But  late  the  same  day,  after  the  doctor,  who  had  been  sent  for 
from  Douglas,  had  wagged  his  head  and  made  a  rueful  face  over 
her,  she  called  for  her  sons,  and  they  came  and  stood  about  her, 
and  Greeba,  who  had  nursed  her  from  the  beginning,  was  also  by 
her  side. 

"Boys,"  she  said,  between  fits  of  pain,  "keep  the  land  together, 
and  don't  separate;  and  mind  you  bring  no  women  here  or  you'll 
fall  to  quarreling,  and  if  any  of  you  must  marry  let  him  have  his 
share  and  go.  Don't  forget  the  heifer  that's  near  to  calving,  and  see 
that  you  fodder  her  every  night.  Fetch  the  geese  down  from  Bar- 
rule  at  Martinmas,  and  count  the  sheep  on  the  mountains  once  a 
week,  for  the  people  of  Maughold  are  the  worst  thieves  in  the 
island." 

They  gave  her  their  promise  duly  to  do  and  not  to  do  what 
she  had  named,  and,  being  little  used  to  such  scenes,  they  grew 
uneasy  and  began  to  shamble  out. 

"And,  boys,  another  thing,"  she  said,  faintly,  stretching  her 
wrinkled  hand  across  the  counterpane,  "give  the  girl  her  rights,  and 
let  her  marry  whom  she  will." 

This,  also,  they  promised  her;  and  then  she,  thinking  her  duty 
done  as  an  honest  woman  toward  man  and  the  world,  but  recking 
nothing  of  higher  obligations,  lay  backward  with  a  groan. 

Now  did  it  not  need  that  the  men  should  marry  in  order  that 
they  might  quarrel,  for  hardly  was  the  breath  out  of  their  mother's 
body  when  they  set  to  squabbling,  withoui  any  woman  to  help  them. 


128  THE   BONDMAN 

Asher  grumbled  that  Thurstan  was  drunken,  Thurstan  grumbled 
that  Asher  was  lazy,  Asher  retorted  that,  being  the  eldest  son,  if 
he  had  his  rights  he  would  have  every  foot  of  the  land,  and  Ross 
and  Stean  arose  in  fury  at  the  bare  thought  of  either  being  hinds 
on  their  brother's  farm  or  else  taking  the  go-by  at  his  hands.  So 
they  quarreled,  until  Jacob  said  that  there  was  plainly  but  one 
way  of  peace  between  them,  and  that  was  to  apportion  the  land  into 
equal  parts  and  let  every  man  take  his  share,  and  then  the  idleness 
of  Asher  and  the  drunkenness  of  Thurstan  would  be  to  each  man  his 
own  affair.  At  that  they  remembered  that  the  lands  of  Lague, 
then  the  largest  estate  on  the  north  of  the  island,  had  once  been 
made  up  of  six  separate  farms,  with  a  house  to  each  of  them,  though 
five  of  the  six  houses  had  long  stood  empty.  And  seeing  that  there 
were  just  six  of  themselves,  it  seemed,  as  Jacob  said,  as  if  Provi- 
dence had  so  appointed  things,  to  see  them  out  of  their  difficulty. 
But  the  farms,  though  of  pretty  equal  acreage,  were  of  various 
quality  of  land,  and  therein  the  quarreling  set  in  afresh. 

"I'll  take  Ballacraine,"  said  Thurstan. 

"No,  but  I'll  take  it,"  said  Jacob,  "for  I've  always  worked  the 
meadows." 

In  the  end  they  cast  lots,  and  then,  each  man  having  his  farm 
assigned  to  him,  all  seemed  to  be  settled  when  Asher  cried: 

"But  what  about  the  girl  ?" 

At  that  they  looked  stupidly  into  each  other's  faces,  for  never 
once  in  all  their  bickering  had  they  given  a  thought  to  Greeba. 
But  Jacob's  resource  was  not  yet  at  an  end,  for  he  suggested  that 
Asher  should  keep  her  at  Lague,  and  at  harvest  the  other  five 
should  give  her  something,  and  that  her  keep  and  their  gifts  to- 
gether should  be  her  share ;  and  if  she  had  all  she  needed  what  more 
could  she  wish? 

They  did  not  consult  Greeba  on  this  head,  and  before  she  had 
time  to  protest  they  were  in  the  thick  of  a  fresh  dispute  among 
themselves.  The  meadow  lands  of  Ballacraine  had  fallen  to  Jacob 
after  all,  while  Thurstan  got  the  high  and  stony  lands  of  Balla- 
fayle,  at  the  foot  of  Barrule.  Thurstan  was  less  than  satisfied,  and 
remembering  that  Jacob  had  drawn  out  the  papers  for  the  lottery, 
he  suspected  cheating.  So  he  made  himself  well  and  thoroughly 
drunk  at  the  "Hibernian."  and  set  off  for  Ballacraine  to  argue  the 
question  out.  He  found  Jacob  in  no  mood  for  words  of  recrimina- 
tion, and  so  he  proceeded  to  thrash  him,  and  to  turn  him  off  the 
fat  lands  and  settle  himself  upon  them. 

Then  there  was  great  commotion  among  the  Fairbrothers,  and 
each  of  the  other  four  took  a  side  in  the  dispute.  The  end  of  it 


THE   BONDMAN  129 

all  was  a  trial  for  ejectment  at  Deemster's  Court  at  Ramsey,  and 
another  for  assault  and  battery.  The  ejectment  came  first  and 
Thurstan  was  ousted,  and  then  six  men  of  Maughold  got  up  in  the 
juror's  box  to  try  the  charge  of  assault.  There  was  little  proof 
but  a  multitude  of  witnesses,  and  before  all  were  heard  the  Deemster 
adjourned  the  court  for  lunch  and  ventilation,  for  the  old  court- 
house had  become  poisonous  with  the  reeking  breath  of  the  people 
that  crowded  it. 

And  the  jury  being  free  to  lunch  where  they  pleased,  each  of 
the  parties  to  the  dispute  laid  hold  of  his  man  and  walked  him  off 
by  himself,  to  persuade  him,  also  to  treat  him,  and  perhaps  to  bribe 
him.  Thus  Thurstan  was  at  the  Saddle  Inn  with  a  juryman  on 
either  hand,  and  Jacob  was  at  the  Plow  with  as  many  by  his  side, 
and  Ross  and  Stean  had  one  each  at  the  tavern  by  the  Cross. 
"You're  right,"  said  the  jurymen  to  Thurstan.  "Drink  up,"  said 
Thurstan  to  the  jurymen.  "I'm  your  man,"  said  the  jurymen  to 
Jacob.  "Slip  this  in  your  fob,"  said  Jacob  to  the  jurymen.  Then 
they  reeled  back  to  the  courthouse  arm-in-arm,  and  when  the  six 
good  men  of  Maughold  had  clambered  up  to  their  places  again,  the 
juror's  box  contained  several  quarts  more  ale  than  before. 

The  jury  did  not  agree  on  a  verdict,  and  the  Deemster  dis- 
missed them  with  hot  reproaches.  But  some  justice  to  Greeba 
seemed  likely  to  come  of  this  wild  farce  of  law,  for  an  advocate, 
who  had  learned  what  her  brothers  were  doing  for  her,  got  up  a 
case  against  them,  for  lack  of  a  better  brief,  and  so  far  prevailed 
on  her  behalf  that  the  Deemster  ordered  that  each  of  the  six  should 
pay  her  eight  pounds  yearly,  as  an  equivalent  for  the  share  of  land 
they  had  unlawfully  withheld. 

Now  Red  Jason  had  spent  that  day  among  the  crowd  at  the 
courthouse,  and  his  hot  blood  had  shown  as  red  as  his  hair  through 
his  tanned  cheeks,  while  he  looked  on  at  the  doings  of  Thurstan 
of  the  swollen  eyes,  and  Jacob  of  the  foxy  face.  He  stood  up  for 
a  time  at  the  back  like  a  statue  of  wrath  with  a  dirty  mist  of  blood 
dancing  before  it.  Then  his  loathing  and  scorn  getting  the  better 
of  him,  he  cursed  beneath  his  breath  in  Icelandic  and  English,  and 
his  restless  hands  scraped  in  and  out  of  his  pockets  as  if  they  itched 
to  fasten  on  somebody's  throat,  or  pick  up  something  as  a  dog  picks 
up  a  rat.  All  he  could  do  was  to  curl  his  lip  in  a  terrible  grin,  like 
the  grin  of  a  mastiff,  until  he  caught  a  sidelong  glimpse  of  Greeba's 
face  with  the  traces  of  tears  upon  it,  and  then,  being  unable  to  con- 
trol any  longer  the  unsatisfied  yearning  of  his  soul  to  throttle 
Jacob,  and  smash  the  ribs  of  Thurstan,  and  give  dandified  John  a 
backhanded  facer,  he  turned  tail  and  slunk  out  of  the  place,  as  if 


i3o  THE   BONDMAN 

ashamed  of  himself  that  he  was  so  useless.  When  all  was  over  he 
stalked  off  to  Port-y-Vullin,  but,  too  nervous  to  settle  to  his  work 
that  day,  he  went  away  in  the  evening  in  the  direction  of  Lague, 
not  thinking  to  call  there,  yet  powerless  to  keep  away. 

Greeba  had  returned  from  Ramsey  alone,  being  little  wishful  for 
company,  so  heavy  was  her  heart.  She  had  seen  how  her  brothers 
had  tried  to  rob  her,  and  how  beggarly  was  the  help  the  law  could 
give  her,  for  though  the  one  might  order  the  others  might  not  obey. 
So  she  had  sat  herself  down  in  her  loneliness,  thinking  that  she  was 
indeed  alone  in  all  the  world,  with  no  one  to  look  up  to  any  more, 
and  no  strong  hand  to  rest  on.  It  was  just  then  that  Jason  pushed 
open  the  door  of  the  porch,  and  stood  on  the  threshold,  in  all  the 
quiet  strength  of  his  untainted  young  manhood,  and  the  calm 
breadth  of  his  simple  manner. 

"Greeba,  may  I  come  in?"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  only  just  audibly,  and  then  he  entered. 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  and  he  did  not  offer  his  hand,  but 
as  he  stood  beside  her  she  grew  stronger,  and  as  she  sat  before  him 
he  felt  that  a  hard  lump  that  had  gathered  at  his  heart  was  melting 
away. 

"Listen  to  me,  Greeba,"  he  said.  "I  know  all  your  troubles, 
and  I'm  very  sorry  for  them.  No,  that's  not  what  I  meant  to  say, 
but  I'm  at  a  loss  for  words.  Greeba!" 

"Yes?" 

"Doesn't  it  seem  as  if  Fate  meant  us  to  come  together — you 
and  I  ?  The  world  has  dealt  very  ill  with  both  of  us  thus  far." 
But  you  are  a  woman  and  I  am  a  man;  and  only  give  me  the 
right  to  fight  for  you — " 

As  he  spoke  he  saw  the  tears  spring  to  her  eyes,  and  he  paused 
and  his  wandering  fingers  found  the  hand  that  hung  by  her  side. 

"Greeba!"  he  cried  again,  but  she  stopped  the  hot  flow  of  the 
words  that  she  saw  were  coming. 

"Leave  me  now,"  she  said.  "Don't  speak  to  me  to-day;  no, 
not  to-day,  Jason.  Go — go !" 

He  obeyed  her  without  a  word,  and  picking  up  his  cap  from 
where  it  had  fallen  at  his  feet,  he  left  her  sitting  there  with  her 
face  covered  by  her  hands. 

She  had  suddenly  bethought  herself  of  Michael  Sunlocks;  that 
she  had  pledged  her  word  to  wait  for  him,  that  she  had  written  to 
him  and  that  his  answer  might  come  at  any  time.  Next  day  she 
went  down  to  the  post-office  at  Ramsey  to  inquire  for  a  letter. 
None  had  yet  come  for  her,  but  a  boat  from  the  Shetlands  that 
might  fetch  mails  from  Iceland  would  arrive  within  three  days. 


THE   BONDMAN  131 

Prompt  to  that  time  she  went  down  to  Ramsey  again,  but  though 
the  boat  had  put  into  harbor  and  discharged  its  mails  there  was 
still  no  letter  for  her.  The  ordinary  Irish  trader  between  Dublin 
and  Reykjavik  was  expected  on  its  homeward  trip  in  a  week  or 
nine  days  more,  and  Greeba's  heart  lay  low  and  waited.  In  due 
course  the  trader  came,  but  no  letter  for  her  came  with  it.  Then 
her  hope  broke  down.  Sunlocks  had  forgotten  her;  perhaps  he 
cared  for  her  no  longer;  it  might  even  be  that  he  loved  some  one 
else.  And  so  with  the  fall  of  her  hope  her  womanly  pride  arose, 
and  she  asked  herself  very  haughtily,  but  with  the  great  tears  in 
her  big  dark  eyes,  what  it  mattered  to  her  after  all.  Only  she  was 
very  lonely,  and  so  weary  and  heart-sick,  and  with  no  one  to  look 
to  for  the  cheer  of  life. 

She  was  still  at  Lague,  where  her  eldest  brother  was  now  sole 
master,  and  he  was  very  cold  with  her,  for  he  had  taken  it  with 
mighty  high  dudgeon  that  a  sister  of  his  should  have  used  the  law 
against  him.  So,  feeling  how  bitter  it  was  to  eat  the  bread  of 
another,  she  had  even  begun  to  pinch  herself  of  food,  and  to  sit 
at  meals  but  rarely. 

But  Jason  came  again  about  a  fortnight  after  the  trial,  and  he 
found  Greeba  alone  as  before.  She  was  sitting  by  the  porch,  in  the 
cool  of  the  summer  evening,  combing  out  the  plaits  of  her  long 
brown  hair,  and  looking  up  at  Barrule,  that  was  heaving  out  large 
and  black  in  the  sundown,  with  a  nightcap  of  silver  vapor  over  its 
head  in  the  clouds. 

"I  can  stay  away  no  longer,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  down.  "I've 
tried  to  stay  away  and  can't,  and  the  days  creep  along.  So  think 
no  ill  of  me  if  I  come  too  soon." 

Greeba  made  him  no  answer,  but  thought  within  herself  that 
if  he  had  stayed  a  day  longer  he  must  have  stayed  a  day  too  long. 

"It's  a  weary  heart  I've  borne,"  he  said,  "since  I  saw  you  last, 
and  you  bade  me  leave  you,  and  I  obeyed,  though  it  cost  me  dear. 
But  let  that  go." 

Still  she  did  not  speak,  and  looking  up  into  her  face  he  saw 
how  pale  she  was,  and  weak  and  ill  as  he  thought. 

"Greeba,"  he  cried,  "what  has  happened?" 

But  she  only  smiled  and  gave  him  a  look  of  kindness,  and  said 
that  nothing  was  amiss  with  her. 

"Yes,  by  the  Lord,  but  something  is  amiss,"  he  said,  with  his 
blood  in  his  face  in  an  instant.  "What  is  it?"  he  cried.  "What 
is  it?" 

"Only  that  I  have  not  eaten  much  to-day,"  she  said,  "that's  all." 

"All !"  he  cried.    "All !" 


132  THE   BONDMAN 

He  seemed  to  understand  everything  at  a  glance,  as  if  the  great 
power  of  his  love  had  taught  him. 

"Now,  by  God — "  he  said,  and  shook  his  fist  at  the  house  in 
front  of  him. 

"Hush !"  Greeba  whispered,  "it  is  my  own  doing.  I  am  loth  to 
be  beholden  to  any  one,  least  of  all  to  such  as  forget  me." 

The  sweet  tenderness  of  her  look  softened  him,  and  he  cast 
down  his  eyes  again,  and  said: 

"Greeba,  there  is  one  who  can  never  forget  you;  morning  and 
night  you  are  with  him,  for  he  loves  you  dearly;  ay,  Greeba,  as 
never  maiden  was  loved  by  any  one  since  the  world  began.  No, 
there  isn't  the  man  born,  Greeba,  who  loves  a  woman  as  he  loves 
you,  for  he  has  nothing  else  to  love  in  all  the  wide  world." 

She  looked  up  at  him  as  he  spoke  and  saw  the  courage  in  his 
eyes,  and  that  he  who  loved  her  stood  as  a  man  beside  her.  At 
that  her  heart  swelled  and  her  eyes  began  to  fill,  and  he  saw  her 
tears  and  knew  that  he  had  won  her,  and  he  plucked  her  to  his 
breast  with  a  wild  cry  of  joy,  and  she  lay  there  and  wept,  while  he 
whispered  to  her  through  her  hair: 

"My  love !  my  love !  love  of  my  life !"  he  whispered. 

"I  was  so  lonely,"  she  murmured. 

"You  shall  be  lonely  no  more,"  he  whispered;  "no  more,  my 
love,  no  more,"  and  his  soft  words  stole  over  her  drooping  head. 

He  stayed  an  hour  longer  by  her  side,  laughing  much  and  talk- 
ing greatly,  and  when  he  went  off  she  heard  him  break  into  a  song 
as  he  passed  out  at  the  gate. 

Then,  being  once  more  alone,  she  sat  and  tried  to  compose  her- 
self, wondering  if  she  should  ever  repent  what  she  had  done  so 
hastily,  and  if  she  could  love  this  man  as  he  well  deserved  and 
would  surely  wish.  Her  meditations  were  broken  by  the  sound  of 
Jason's  voice.  He  was  coming  back  with  his  happy  step,  and  sing- 
ing as  merrily  as  he  went. 

"What  a  blockhead  I  am,"  he  said,  cheerily,  popping  his  head 
in  at  the  door.  "I  forgot  to  deliver  you  a  letter  that  the  postmaster 
gave  me  when  I  was  at  Ramsey  this  morning.  You  see  it's  from 
Iceland.  Good  news  from  your  father,  I  trust.  God  bless  him !" 

So  saying  he  pushed  the  letter  into  Greeba's  hand  and  went  his 
way  jauntily,  singing  as  before  a  gay  song  of  his  native  country. 

The  letter  was  from  Michael  Sunlocks. 


THE   BONDMAN  133 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE   RISE    OF    MICHAEL    SUNLOCKS 

"DEAR  GREEBA/'  the  letter  ran,  "I  am  sorely  ashamed  of  my  long 
silence,  which  is  deeply  ungrateful  toward  your  father,  and  very 
ungracious  toward  you.  Though  something  better  than  four  years 
have  passed  away  since  I  left  the  little  green  island,  the  time  has 
seemed  to  fly  more  swiftly  than  a  weaver's  shuttle,  and  I  have  been 
immersed  in  many  interests  and  beset  by  many  anxieties.  But  I 
well  know  that  nothing  can  quite  excuse  me,  and  I  would  wrong 
the  truth  if  I  were  to  say  that  among  fresh  scenes  and  fresh  faces  I 
have  borne  about  me  day  and  night  the  memory  of  all  I  left  be- 
hind. So  I  shall  not  pretend  to  a  loyalty  whereof  I  have  given 
you  no  assurance,  but  will  just  pray  of  you  to  take  me  for  what 
I  truly  am — a  rather  thankless  fellow — who  has  sometimes  found 
himself  in  danger  of  forgetting  old  friends  in  the  making  of  new 
ones,  and  been  very  heartily  ashamed  of  himself.  Nevertheless,  the 
sweetest  thoughts  of  these  four  years  have  been  thoughts  of  the 
old  home,  and  the  dearest  hope  of  my  heart  has  been  to  return  to 
it  some  day.  That  day  has  not  yet  come ;  but  it  is  coming,  and  now 
I  seem  to  see  it  very  near.  So,  dear  Greeba,  forgive  me  if  you 
can,  or  at  least  bear  me  no  grudge,  and  let  me  tell  you  of  some 
of  the  strange  things  that  have  befallen  me  since  we  parted. 

"When  I  came  to  Iceland  it  was  not  to  join  the  Latin  school  of 
the  venerable  Bishop  Petersen  (a  worthy  man  and  good  Christian, 
whom  it  has  become  my  happiness  to  call  my  friend),  but  on  an 
errand  of  mercy,  whereof  I  may  yet  say  much  but  can  tell  you  little 
now.  The  first  of  my  duties  was  to  find  a  good  woman  and  true 
wife  who  had  suffered  deeply  by  the  great  fault  of  another,  and, 
having  found  her,  to  succor  her  in  her  distress.  It  says  much  for 
the  depth  of  her  misfortunes  that,  though  she  had  been  the  daughter 
of  the  Governor-General,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  capital  of  Ice- 
land are  fewer  than  two  thousand  in  all,  I  was  more  than  a  week 
in  Reykjavik  before  I  came  upon  any  real  news  of  her.  When  I 
found  her  at  last  she  was  in  her  grave.  The  poor  soul  had  died 
within  two  months  of  my  landing  on  these  shores,  and  the  joiner  of 
the  cathedral  was  putting  a  little  wooden  peg,  inscribed  with  the 
initials  of  her  name,  over  her  grave  in  the  forgotten  quarter  of 


I34  THE   BONDMAN 

the  cemetery  where  the  dead  poor  of  this  place  are  buried.  Such 
was  the  close  of  the  first  chapter  of  my  quest. 

"But  I  had  still  another  duty,  and,  touched  by  the  pathos  of  that 
timeless  death,  I  set  about  it  with  new  vigor.  This  was  to  learn 
if  the  unhappy  soul  had  left  a  child  behind  her,  and  if  she  had  done 
so  to  look  for  it  as  I  had  looked  for  its  mother,  and  succor  it  as  I 
would  have  succored  her.  I  found  that  she  had  left  a  son,  a  lad  of 
my  own  age  or  thereabouts,  and  therefore  less  than  twenty  at  that 
time.  Little  seemed  to  be  known  about  him,  save  that  he  had  been 
his  mother's  sole  stay  and  companion,  that  they  had  both  lived 
apart  from  their  neighbors,  and  much  under  the  shadow  of  their 
distresses.  At  her  death  he  had  been  with  her,  and  he  had  stood  by 
her  grave,  but  never  afterward  had  he  been  seen  by  any  one  who 
could  make  a  guess  as  to  what  had  become  of  him.  But,  while  I 
was  still  in  the  midst  of  my  search,  the  body  of  a  young  man  came 
ashore  on  the  island  of  Engy,  and  though  the  features  were  no 
longer  to  be  recognized,  yet  there  were  many  in  the  fishing  quarter 
of  this  city  who  could  swear,  from  evidences  of  stature  and  of 
clothing,  to  ks  identity  with  him  I  looked  for ;  and  thus  the  second 
chapter  of  my  quest  seemed  to  close  at  a  tomb. 

"I  can  not  say  that  I  was  fully  satisfied,  for  nothing  that  I  had 
heard  of  the  boy's  character  seemed  to  agree  with  any  thought 
of  suicide,  and  I  noticed  that  the  good  old  Lutheran  priest  who  had 
sat  with  the  poor  mother  in  her  last  hours  shook  his  head  at  the 
mention  of  it,  though  he  would  give  no  reasons  for  his  determined 
unbelief.  But  perhaps  my  zeal  was  flagging,  for  my  search  ceased 
from  that  hour,  and  as  often  since  as  my  conscience  has  reproached 
me  with  a  mission  unfulfilled  I  have  appeased  it  with  the  assurance 
that  mother  and  son  are  both  gone,  and  death  itself  has  been  my 
sure  abridgment. 

"Some  day,  dear  Greeba,  I  will  tell  you  who  sent  me  (which 
you  may  partly  guess)  and  who  they  were  to  whom  I  was  sent. 
But  it  is  like  the  way  of  the  world  itself,  that,  having  set  ourselves 
a  task,  we  must  follow  it  as  regularly  as  the  sun  rises  and  sets, 
and  the  day  comes  and  the  night  follows,  or  once  letting  it  slip 
it  will  drop  into  a  chaos.  For  a  thing  happened  just  at  that  mo- 
ment of  my  wavering  which  altered  the  current  of  my  life,  so  that 
my  time  here,  which  was  to  be  devoted  to  an  unselfish  work,  seems 
to  have  been  given  up  to  personal  ambitions. 

"I  have  mentioned  that  the  good  woman  had  been  the  daughter 
of  the  Governor-General.  His  name  was  Jorgen  Jorgensen.  He 
had  turned  her  adrift  because  of  her  marriage,  which  was  in  de- 
fiance of  his  wish,  and  through  all  the  years  of  her  poverty  he 


THE   BONDMAN  135 

had  either  abandoned  her  to  her  necessities,  or  her  pride  had  hidden 
them  from  his  knowledge.  But  he  had  heard  of  her  death  when  it 
came  to  pass,  and  by  that  time  his  stubborn  spirit  had  begun  to  feel 
the  lonesomeness  of  his  years,  and  that  life  was  slipping  past  him 
without  the  love  and  tenderness  of  a  child  to  sweeten  it.  So  partly 
out  of  remorse,  but  mainly  out  of  selfishness,  he  had  set  out  to  find 
the  son  whom  his  daughter  had  left  behind  her,  thinking  to  give  the 
boy  the  rightful  place  of  a  grandson  by  his  side.  It  was  then  that 
on  the  same  search  our  paths  converged,  and  Jorgen  Jorgensen  met 
with  me,  and  I  with  Jorgen  Jorgensen.  And  when  the  news 
reached  Reykjavik  of  the  body  that  had  come  out  of  the  sea  at 
Engy,  the  Governor  was  among  the  first  to  give  credence  to  the 
rumor  that  the  son  of  his  daughter  was  dead.  But  meantime  he 
had  found  something  in  me  to  interest  him,  and  now  he  asked  who 
I  was,  and  what  and  why  I  was  come.  His  questions  I  answered 
plainly,  without  concealment  or  any  disguise,  and  when  he  heard 
that  I  was  the  son  of  Stephen  Orry,  though  he  knew  too  well  what 
my  father  had  been  to  him  and  to  his  daughter  (all  of  which,  dear 
Greeba,  you  shall  yet  learn  at  length),  he  asked  me 'to  take  that 
place  in  his  house  that  he  had  intended  for  his  daughter's  son. 

"How  I  came  to  agree  to  this  while  I  distrusted  him  and  almost 
feared  him  would  take  too  long  to  tell.  Only  remember  that  I  was 
in  a  country  foreign  to  me,  though  it  was  my  father's  home,  that  I 
was  trifling  with  my  errand  there,  and  had  no  solid  business  of  life 
beside.  Enough  for  the  present  that  I  did  so  agree,  and  that  I  be- 
came the  housemate  and  daily  companion  of  Jorgen  Jorgensen. 
His  treatment  of  me  varied  with  his  moods,  which  were  many. 
Sometimes  it  was  harsh,  sometimes  almost  genial,  and  always  self- 
ish. I  think  I  worked  for  him  as  a  loyal  servant  should,  taking  no 
account  of  his  promises,  and  never  shutting  my  eyes  to  my  true 
position  or  his  real  aims  in  having  me.  And  often  and  again  when 
I  remembered  all  that  we  both  knew  of  what  had  gone  before,  I 
thought  the  Fates  themselves  must  shriek  at  the  turn  of  fortune's 
wheel  that  had  thrown  this  man  and  me  together  so. 

"I  say  he  was  selfish ;  and  truly  he  did  all  he  could  in  the  years 
I  was  with  him  to  drain  me  of  my  best  strength  of  heart  and 
brain,"  but  some  of  his  selfish  ends  seemed  to  lie  in  the  way  of 
my  own  advancement.  Thus  he  had  set  his  mind  on  my  succeeding 
him  in  the  governorship,  or  at  least  becoming  Speaker,  and  to  that 
end  he  had  me  elected  to  the  Althing,  a  legislative  body  very  like 
to  the  House  of  Keys,  violating  thereby  more  than  one  regulation 
touching  my  age,  nationality,  and  period  of  residence  in  Iceland. 
There  he  made  his  first  great  error  in  our  relations,  for  while  I  was 


136  THE   BONDMAN 

a  servant  in  his  house  and  office  my  mind  and  will  were  his,  but 
when  I  became  a  delegate  they  became  my  own,  in  charge  for  the 
people  who  elected  me. 

"It  would  be  a  long  story  to  tell  you  of  all  that  occurred  in  the 
three  years  thereafter;  how  I  saw  many  a  doubtful  scheme  hatched 
under  my  eyes  without  having  the  power  or  right  to  protest  while 
I  kept  the  shelter  of  the  Governor's  roof ;  how  I  left  his  house  and 
separated  from  him ;  how  I  pursued  my  way  apart  from  him,  sup- 
ported by  good  men  who  gathered  about  me ;  how  he  slandered  and 
maligned  and  injured  me  through  my  father,  whom  all  had  known, 
and  my  mother,  of  whom  I  myself  had  told  him ;  how  in  the  end  he 
prompted  the  Danish  Government  to  propose  to  the  Althing  a  new 
constitution  for  Iceland,  curtailing  her  ancient  liberties  and  violat- 
ing her  time-honored  customs,  and  how  I  led  the  opposition  to  this 
unworthy  project  and  defeated  it.  The  end  of  all  is  that  within 
these  two  months  Iceland  has  risen  against  the  rule  of  Denmark 
as  administered  by  Jorgen  Jorgensen,  driving  him  away,  and  that 
I,  who  little  thought  to  sit  in  his  place  even  in  the  days  when 
he  himself  was  plotting  to  put  me  there,  and  would  have  fled  from 
the  danger  of  pushing  from  his  stool  the  man  whose  bread  I 
had  eaten,  am  at  this  moment  president  of  a  new  Icelandic  Re- 
public. 

"It  will  seem  to  you  a  strange  climax  that  I  am  where  I  am 
after  so  short  a  life  here,  coming  as  a  youth  and  a  stranger  only 
four  years  ago,  without  a  livelihood  and  with  little  money  (though 
more  I  might  perhaps  have  had),  on  a  vague  errand,  scarcely  able 
to  speak  the  language  of  the  people,  and  understanding  it  merely 
from  the  uncertain  memories  of  childhood.  And  if  above  the  pleas- 
ures of  a  true  patriotism — for  I  am  an  Icelander,  too,  proud  of  the 
old  country  and  its  all  but  thousand  years — there  is  a  secret  joy 
in  my  cup  of  fortune,  the  sweetest  part  of  it  is  that  there  are  those 
— there  is  one — in  dear  little  Elian  Vannin  who  will,  I  truly  think, 
rejoice  with  me  and  be  glad.  But  I  am  too  closely  beset  by  the 
anxieties  that  have  come  with  my  success  to  give  much  thought 
to  its  vanities.  Thus  in  this  first  lull  after  the  storm  of  our  revolu- 
tion, I  have  to  be  busy  with  many  active  preparations.  Jorgen 
Jorgensen  has  gone  to  Copenhagen,  where  he  will  surely  incite  the 
Danish  Government  to  reprisals,  though  a  powerful  State  might 
well  afford  to  leave  to  its  freedom  the  ancient  little  nation  that 
lives  on  a  great  rock  of  the  frozen  seas.  In  view  of  this  certainty, 
I  have  to  organize  some  native  forces  of  defense,  both  on  land  and 
sea.  One  small  colony  of  Danish  colonists  who  took  the  side  of  the 
Danish  powers  has  had  to  be  put  down  by  force,  and  I  have  re- 


THE   BONDMAN  137 

moved  the  political  prisoners  from  the  jail  of  Reykjavik,  where  they 
did  no  good,  to  the  sulphur  mines  at  Krisuvik,  where  they  are  open- 
ing an  industry  that  should  enrich  the  State.  So  you  see  that  my 
hands  are  full  of  anxious  labor,  and  that  my  presence  here  seems 
necessary  now.  But  if,  as  sanguine  minds  predict,  all  comes  out 
well  in  the  end,  and  Denmark  leaves  us  to  ourselves,  or  the  powers 
of  Europe  rise  against  Denmark,  and  Iceland  remains  a  free  nation, 
I  will  not  forget  that  my  true  home  is  in  the  dear  island  of  the 
Irish  Sea,  and  that  good  souls  are  there  who  remember  me  and 
would  welcome  me,  and  that  one  of  them  was  my  dear  little  play- 
fellow long  ago. 

"And  now,  dear  Greeba,  you  know  what  has  happened  to  me 
since  we  parted  on  that  sweet  night  at  the  gate  of  Lague,  but  I 
know  nothing  of  all  that  has  occurred  to  you.  My  neglect  has  been 
well  punished  by  my  ignorance  and  my  many  fears. 

"How  is  your  father?  Is  the  dear  man  well,  and  happy,  and 
prosperous  ?  He  must  be  so,  or  surely  there  is  no  Providence  dis- 
pensing justice  in  this  world. 

"Are  you  well  ?  To  me  the  years  have  sent  a  tawny  beard  and 
a  woful  lantern  jaw.  Have  they  changed  you  greatly?  Yet  how 
can  you  answer  such  a  question  ?  Only  say  that  you  are  well,  and 
have  been  always  well,  and  I  will  know  the  rest,  dear  Greeba — that 
the  four  years  past  have  only  done  what  the  preceding  eight 
years  did,  in  ripening  the  bloom  of  the  sweetest  woman- 
hood, in  softening  the  dark  light  of  the  most  glorious  eyes,  and  in 
smoothing  the  dimples  of  the  loveliest  face  that  ever  the  sun  of 
Heaven  shone  upon. 

"But,  thinking  of  this,  and  trying  to  summon  up  a  vision  of 
you  as  you  must  be  now,  it  serves  me  right  that  I  am  tortured  by 
fears  I  dare  not  utter.  What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time? 
Have  you  made  any  new  friends?  I  have  made  many,  yet  none 
that  seem  to  have  got  as  close  to  me  as  the  old  ones  are.  One  old 
friend,  the  oldest  I  can  remember,  though  young  enough  yet  for 
beauty  and  sweet  grace,  is  still  the  closest  to  my  heart.  Do  you 
know  whom  I  mean?  Greeba,  do  you  remember  your  promise? 
You  could  hardly  speak  to  make  it.  I  had  forgotten  my  manners 
so  that  I  had  left  you  little  breath.  Have  you  forgotten?  To  me 
it  is  a  delicious  memory,  and  if  it  is  not  a  painful  one  to  you,  then 
all  is  well  with  both  of  us.  But,  oh,  for  the  time  to  come,  when 
many  a  similar  promise,  and  many  a  like  breach  of  manners,  will 
wipe  away  the  thought  of  this  one !  I  am  almost  in  love  with  my- 
self to  think  it  was  I  who  stood  with  you  by  the  bridge  at  Lague, 
and  could  find  it  in  my  heart,  if  it  were  only  in  my  power,  to  kiss 


I38  THE   BONDMAN 

the  lips  that  kissed  you.  I'll  do  better  than  that  some  day.  What 
say  you  ?  But  say  nothing,  for  that's  best,  dearest.  Ah,  Greeba — " 

At  this  point  there  was  a  break  in  the  letter,  and  what  came 
after  was  in  a  larger,  looser,  and  more  rapid  handwriting. 

"Your  letter  has  this  moment  reached  me.  I  am  overwhelmed 
by  the  bad  news  you  send  me.  Your  father  has  not  yet  come.  Did 
his  ship  sail  for  Reykjavik?  Or  was  it  for  Hafnafjord?  Certainly 
it  may  have  put  in  at  the  Orkneys,  or  the  Faroes.  But  if  it  sailed 
a  fortnight  before  you  wrote,  it  ought  to  be  here  now.  I  will  make 
inquiries  forthwith. 

"I  interrupted  my  letter  to  send  a  boat  down  the  fiord  to  look. 
It  is  gone.  I  can  see  it  now  skirting  the  Smoky  Harbor  on  its  way 
to  the  Smoky  Point.  If  your  father  comes  back  with  it,  he  shall 
have  a  thousand,  thousand  welcomes.  The  dear  good  man — how 
well  I  remember  that  on  the  day  I  parted  from  him  he  rallied  me 
on  my  fears,  and  said  he  would  yet  come  here  to  see  me !  Little 
did  he  think  to  come  like  this.  And  the  worst  of  his  misfortunes 
have  followed  on  his  generosities !  Such  big-hearted  men  should 
have  a  store  like  the  widow's  cruse  to  draw  from,  that  would  grow 
no  less,  however  often  they  dipped  into  it.  God  keep  him  till  we 
meet  again  and  I  hold  once  more  that  hand  of  charity  and  blessing, 
or  have  it  resting  on  my  head. 

"I  am  anxious  on  your  account  also,  dearest  Greeba,  for  I  know 
too  well  what  your  condition  must  be  in  your  mother's  house.  My 
dear  girl,  forgive  me  for  what  I  send  you  with  this  letter.  The 
day  I  left  the  island  your  father  lent  me  fifty  pounds,  and  now  I 
repay  it  to  his  daughter.  So  it  is  not  a  gift,  and,  if  it  were,  you 
should  still  take  it  from  me,  seeing  there  are  no  obligations  among 
those  who  love. 

"The  duties  that  hold  me  here  are  now  for  the  first  time  irk- 
some, for  I  am  longing  for  the  chance  of  hastening  to  your  side. 
But  only  say  that  I  may  do  so  with  your  consent  and  all  that  goes 
with  it,  and  I  will  not  lose  a  day  more  in  sending  a  trustworthy 
person  to  you  who  shall  bring  you  here  to  rejoin  your  father  and 
me.  Write  by  the  first  ship  that  will  bring  your  letter.  I  shall  not 
rest  until  I  have  heard  from  you ;  and  having  heard  in  such  words 
as  my  heart  could  wish,  I  shall  not  sleep  until  you  are  with  me, 
never,  never  to  be  parted  from  me  again  as  long  as  life  itself  shall 
last.  Write,  dearest  girl — write — write." 

Here  there  was  another  break  in  the  letter,  and  then  came  this 
postscript. 

"It  is  part  of  the  penalty  of  life  in  these  northern  lands  that 
for  nearly  one-half  of  the  year  we  are  entirely  cut  off  from  inter- 


THE   BONDMAN  139 

course  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  are  at  the  mercy  of  wind  and 
sea  for  that  benefit  during  the  other  half.  My  letter  has  waited 
these  seven  days  for  the  passing  of  a  storm  before  the  ship  that  is 
to  carry  it  can  sail.  This  interval  has  seen  the  return  of  the  sloop 
that  I  sent  down  the  fiord  as  far  as  Smoky  Point,  but  no  tidings 
has  she  brought  back  of  the  vessel  your  father  sailed  in,  and  no 
certain  intelligence  has  yet  reached  me  from  any  other  quarter. 
So  let  me  not  alarm  you  when  I  add  that  a  report  has  come  to 
Reykjavik  by  a  whaler  on  the  seas  under  Snaefell  that  an  Irish 
schooner  has  lately  been  wrecked  near  the  mouth  of  some  basaltic 
caves  by  Stappen,  all  hands  being  saved,  but  the  vessel  gone  to 
pieces,  and  crew  and  passengers  trying  to  make  their  way  to  the 
capital  overland.  I  am  afraid  to  fear,  and  as  much  afraid  to  hope, 
that  this  may  have  been  the  ship  that  brought  your  father;  but  I 
am  fitting  out  an  expedition  to  go  along  the  coast  to  meet  the  poor 
ship-broken  company,  for  whoever  they  are  they  can  know  little  of 
the  perils  and  privations  of  a  long  tramp  across  this  desolate 
country.  If  more  and  better  news  should  come  my  way  you  shall 
have  it  in  its  turn,  but  meantime  bethink  you  earnestly  whether 
it  is  not  now  for  you  to  come  and  to  join  me,  and  your  father  also, 
if  he  should  then  be  here,  and,  if  not,  to  help  me  to  search  for  him. 
But  it  is  barely  just  to  you  to  ask  so  much  without  making  myself 
clear,  though  truly  you  must  have  guessed  my  meaning.  Then, 
dear  Greeba,  when  I  say  'Come,'  I  mean  Come  to  be  my  wife.  It 
sounds  cold  to  say  it  so,  and  such  a  plea  is  not  the  one  my  heart 
has  cherished;  for  through  all  these  years  I  have  heard  myself 
whisper  that  dear  word  through  trembling  lips,  with  a  luminous 
vision  of  my  own  face  in  your  beautiful  eyes  before  me.  But  that 
is  not  to  be,  save  in  an  aftermath  of  love,  if  you  will  only  let  the 
future  bring  it.  So,  dearest  love,  my  darling — more  to  me  than 
place  and  power  and  all  the  world  can  give — come  to  me — come — 
come — come." 


CHAPTER   V 

STRONG    KNOTS    OF    LOVE 

Now  never  did  a  letter  bring  more  contrary  feelings  to  man  or 
maid  than  this  one  of  Michael  Sunlocks  brought  to  Greeba.  It 
thrilled  her  with  love,  it  terrified  her  with  fear;  it  touched  her 
with  delight,  it  chilled  her  with  despair ;  it  made  her  laugh,  it  made 
her  weep;  she  kissed  it  with  quivering  lips,  she  dropped  it  from 


i4o  THE    BONDMAN 

trembling  fingers.  But  in  the  end  it  swept  her  heart  and  soul  away 
with  it,  as  it  must  have  swept  away  the  heart  and  soul  of  any 
maiden  who  ever  loved,  and  she  leaped  at  the  thought  that  she  must 
go  to  Sunlocks  and  to  her  father  at  once,  without  delay — not  wait- 
ing to  write,  or  for  the  messenger  that  was  to  come. 

Yet  the  cooler  moment  followed,  when  she  remembered  Jason. 
She  was  pledged  to  him;  she  had  given  him  her  promise;  and  if 
she  broke  her  word  she  would  break  his  heart.  But  Sunlocks — 
Sunlocks — Sunlocks !  She  could  hear  his  low,  passionate  voice 
in  the  words  of  his  letter.  Jason  she  had  loved  for  his  love  of 
her;  but  Sunlocks  she  had  loved  of  her  love  alone. 

What  was  she  to  do?  Go  to  Sunlocks,  and  thereby  break  her 
word  and  the  heart  of  Jason,  or  abide  by  Jason,  and  break  her  own 
heart  and  the  hope  of  Sunlocks  ?  "Oh,"  she  thought,  "if  the  letter 
had  but  come  a  day  earlier — one  little  day — nay,  one  hour — one 
little,  little  hour !"  Then,  in  her  tortured  mind,  she  reproached 
Jason  for  keeping  it  back  from  her  by  his  forgetfulness,  and  at 
the  next  instant  she  reproached  Sunlocks  for  his  tardy  despatch, 
and  last  of  all  she  reproached  herself  for  not  waiting  for  it.  "Oh," 
she  thought,  "was  ever  a  girl  born  to  bring  such  misery  to  those 
who  love  her !" 

All  the  long  night  thereafter  she  tossed  in  restless  doubt,  never 
once  closing  her  eyes  in  sleep;  and  at  daybreak  she  rose  and 
dressed,  and  threw  open  her  window,  and  cool  waves  of  morning 
air  floated  down  upon  her  from  the  mountains,  where  the  bald 
crown  of  Barrule  was  tipped  with  rosy  light  from  the  sun  that  was 
rising  over  the  sea.  Then,  in  the  stillness  of  the  morning,  before 
the  cattle  in  the  meadows  had  begun  to  low,  or  the  sheep  on  the 
hills  to  bleat,  and  there  was  yet  no  noise  of  work  in  the  rickyard 
or  the  shippon,  and  all  the  moorland  below  lay  asleep  under  its  thin 
coverlet  of  mist,  there  came  to  her  from  across  the  fields  the  sound 
of  a  happy,  cheery  voice  that  was  singing.  She  listened,  and  knew 
that  it  was  Jason,  chanting  a  song  of  Iceland  after  a  night  spent 
on  the  mountains ;  and  she  looked  and  saw  that  he  was  coming  on 
toward  the  house,  with  his  long,  swinging  stride  and  leap,  over 
gorse  and  cushag  and  hedge  and  ditch. 

It  was  more  than  she  could  bear  after  such  night-long  torment, 
to  look  upon  the  happiness  she  seemed  about  to  wreck,  so  she 
turned  her  head  away  and  covered  her  ears  with  her  hands.  But, 
recking  nothing  of  this,  Tason  came  on,  singing  in  snatches  and 
whistling  by  turns,  until  his  firm  tread  echoed  in  the  paved  court- 
yard in  the  silence  that  was  broken  by  nothing  beside,  except  the 
wakening  of  the  rooks  in  the  elms. 


THE   BONDMAN  141 

"She "  must  be  awake,  for  she  lies  there,  and  her  window  is 
open,"  he  thought  to  himself. 

"Whisht!"  he  cried,  tossing  up  a  hand. 

And  then,  without  moving  from  where  she  stood,  with  her  back 
resting  against  the  window  shutter,  she  turned  her  head  about  and 
her  eyes  aslant,  and  saw  him  beneath  her  casement.  He  looked 
buoyant  and  joyous,  and  full  of  laughter.  A  gun  was  over  his 
shoulder,  a  fishing  rod  was  in  the  other  hand,  at  his  belt  hung  a 
brace  of  birds,  with  the  blood  dripping  on  to  his  leggings,  and 
across  his  back  swung  a  little  creel. 

"Greeba,  whisht!"  he  called  again,  in  a  loud  whisper;  and  a 
third  time  he  called  her. 

Then,  though  her  heart  smote  her  sore,  she  could  not  but  step 
forward ;  and  perhaps  her  very  shame  made  her  the  more  beautiful 
at  that  moment,  for  her  cheeks  were  rosy  red,  and  her  round  neck 
drooped,  and  her  eyes  were  shy  of  the  morning  light,  and  very 
sweet  she  looked  to  the  lad  who  loved  her  there. 

"Ah !"  he  said  almost  inaudibly,  and  drew  a  long  breath.  Then 
he  made  pretense  to  kiss  her,  though  so  far  out  of  reach,  and  laughed 
in  his  throat.  After  that  he  laid  his  gun  against  the  porch,  and 
untied  the  birds  and  threw  them  down  at  the  foot  of  the  closed 
door. 

"I  thought  I  would  bring  you  these,"  he  said.  "I've  just  shot 
them." 

"Then  you've  not  been  to  bed,"  said  Greeba  nervously. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  he  said,  laughing.  "Nothing  for  me. 
Besides,  how  could  I  sleep?  Sleep?  Why  I  should  have  been 
ready  to  kill  myself  this  morning  if  I  could  have  slept  last  night. 
Greeba !" 

"Well !" 

"You  could  never  think  what  a  glorious  night  it  has  been 
for  me." 

"So  you've  had  good  sport?"  she  said,  feeling  ashamed. 

"Sport!"  he  cried,  and  laughed  again.  "Oh,  yes;  I've  had  sport 
enough,"  he  said.  "But  what  a  night  it  was !  The  happiest  night 
of  all  my  life.  Every  star  that  shone  seemed  to  shine  for  me; 
every  wind  that  blew  seemed  to  bring  me  a  message;  and  every 
bird  that  sang,  as  the  day  was  dawning,  seemed  to  sing  the  song 
of  all  my  happiness.  Oh,  it  has  been  a  triumphant  night,  Greeba." 

She  turned  her  head  away  from  him,  but  he  did  not  stop. 

"And  this  morning,  coming  down  from  Barrule,  everything 
seemed  to  speak  to  me  of  one  thing,  and  that  was  the  dearest  thing 
in  all  the  world.  'Dear  little  river,'  I  said,  'how  happily  you  sing  your 


142 


THE    BOXDMAX 


way  to  the  sea.'  And  then  I  remembered  that  before  it  got  there 
it  would  turn  the  wheel  for  us  at  Port-y-Vullin  some  day,  and  so 
I  said,  'Dear  little  mill,  how  merrily  you'll  go  when  I  listen  to  your 
plash  and  plunge,  with  her  I  love  beside  me." 

She  did  not  speak,  and  after  a  moment  he  laughed. 

"That's  very  foolish,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said.     "Why  foolish?" 

"Well,  it  sounds  so;  but,  ah,  last  night  the  stars  around  me  on 
the  mountain  top  seemed  like  a  sanctuary,  and  this  morning  the 
birds  among  the  gorse  were  like  a  choir,  and  all  sang  together, 
and  away  to  the  roof  their  word  rang  out — Greeba !  Greeba ! 
Greeba !" 

He  could  hear  a  faint  sobbing. 

"Greeba !" 

"Yes?" 

"You  are  crying." 

"Am  I?    Oh,  no!     No,  Jason,  not  that." 

"I  must  go.  What  a  fool  I  am,"  he  muttered,  and  picked  up 
his  gun. 

"Oh,  no;  don't  say  that." 

"Greeba !" 

"Well,  Jason?" 

"I'm  going  now,  but — " 

"Why?" 

"I'm  not  my  own  man  this  morning.     I'm  talking  foolishly." 

"Well,  and  do  you  think  a  girl  doesn't  like  foolishness?" 

He  threw  his  head  back  and  laughed  at  the  blue  sky.  "But  I'm 
coming  back  for  you  in  the  evening.  I  am  to  get  the  last  of  my 
rafters  on  to-day,  and  when  a  building  is  raised  it's  a  time  to  make 
merry." 

He  laughed  again  with  a  joyous  lightness,  and  turned  to  go,  and 
she  waved  her  hand  to  him  as  he  passed  out  of  the  gate.  Then, 
one,  two,  three,  four,  his  strong  rhythmic  steps  went  off  behind 
the  elms,  and  then  he  was  gone,  and  the  early  sun  was  gone  with 
him,  for  its  brightness  seemed  to  have  died  out  of  the  air. 

And  being  alone  Greeba  knew  why  she  had  tried  to  keep  Jason 
by  her  side,  for  while  he  was  with  her  the  temptation  was  not 
strong  to  break  in  upon  his  happiness,  but  when  he  was  no  longer 
there,  do  what  she  would,  she  could  not  but  remember  Michael 
Sunlocks. 

"Oh,  what  have  I  done  that  two  brave  men  should  love  me?" 
she  thought;  but  none  the  less  for  that  her  heart  clamored  for 
Sunlocks.  Sunlocks,  Sunlocks,  Sunlocks,  always  Sunlocks — the 


THE   BONDMAN  143 

Sunlocks  of  her  childhood,  her  girlhood,  her  first  womanhood — 
Sunlocks  of  the  bright  eyes  and  the  smile  like  sunshine. 

And  thinking  again  of  Jason,  and  his  brave  ways,  and  his  sim- 
ple, manly  bearing,  and  his  plain  speech  so  strangely  lifted  out  of 
itself  that  day  into  words  with  wings,  she  only  told  herself  that  she 
was  about  to  break  his  heart,  and  that  to  see  herself  do  it  would 
go  far  to  break  her  own.  So  she  decided  that  she  would  write  to 
him,  and  then  slip  away  as  best  she  could,  seeing  him  no  more. 

At  that  resolve  she  sat  and  wrote  four  pages  of  pleading  and 
prayer  and  explanation.  But  having  finished  her  letter,  it  smote 
her  suddenly,  as  she  folded  and  sealed  it,  that  it  would  be  a  selfish 
thing  to  steal  away  without  warning,  and  leave  this  poor  paper 
behind  her  to  crush  Jason,  for  though  written  in  pity  for  him, 
in  truth  it  was  fraught  with  pity  only  for  herself.  As  mean  of 
soul  as  that  she  could  not  be,  and  straightway  she  threw  her  letter 
aside,  resolved  to  tell  her  story  face  to  face.  Then  she  remembered 
the  night  of  Stephen  Orry's  death,  and  the  white  lips  of  Jason  as 
he  stood  above  the  dying  man — his  father  whom  he  had  crossed  the 
seas  to  slay — and,  again,  by  a  quick  recoil,  she  recalled  his  laughter 
of  that  morning,  and  she  said  within  herself,  "If  I  tell  him,  he  will 
kill  me." 

But  that  thought  decided  her,  and  she  concluded  that  tell  him 
she  must,  let  happen  what  would.  So  partly  in  the  strength  of  her 
resolve,  and  partly  out  of  its  womanly  weakness,  and  the  fear  that 
she  might  return  to  her  first  plan  at  last,  she  took  up  her  own 
letter  to  Jason,  and  locked  it  in  a  chest.  Then  taking  from  the 
folds  at  her  breast  the  letter  of  Sunlocks  to  herself,  she  read  it 
again,  and  yet  again,  for  it  was  the  only  love  letter  she  had  ever 
received,  and  there  was  a  dear  delight  in  the  very  touch  of  it.  But 
the  thought  of  that  sensuous  joy  smote  her  conscience  when  she 
remembered  what  she  had  still  to  do,  and  thinking  that  she  could 
never  speak  to  Jason  eye  to  eye,  with  the  letter  of  Sunlocks  lying 
warm  in  her  bosom,  she  took  it  out,  and  locked  it  also  in  the  chest. 

Jason  came  back  at  sundown  to  fetch  her  away  that  they  might 
make  some  innocent  sport  together  because  his  mill  was  roofed. 
Then  with  her  eyes  on  her  feet  she  spoke,  and  he  listened  in  a  dull, 
impassive  silence,  while  all  the  laughter  died  off  his  face  and  a 
look  of  blank  pallor  came  over  it  And  when  she  had  finished,  she 
waited  for  the  blow  of  his  anger,  but  it  did  not  come. 

"Then  all  is  over  between  us,"  he  said  with  an  effort. 

And  looking  up,  she  saw  that  he  was  a  forlorn  man  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  fell  to  her  knees  before  him  with  many  pitiful  prayers 
for  forgiveness.  But  he  only  raised  her  and  said  gently: 


144  THE    BONDMAN 

"Mistress  Greeba,  maybe   I  haven't  loved  you  enough." 

"No,  no,"  she  cried. 

"I'm  only  a  rough  and  ignorant  fellow,  a  sort  of  wild  beast,  I 
dare  say,  not  fit  to  touch  the  hand  of  a  lady,  and  maybe  a  lady  could 
never  stoop  to  me." 

"No,  no,  there's  not  a  lady  in  all  the  world  would  stoop  if  she 
were  to  marry  you." 

"Then  maybe  I  vexed  you  by  finding  my  own  advantage  in  your 
hour  of  need." 

"No,  you  have  behaved  bravely  with  me  in  my  trouble." 

"Then,  Greeba,  tell  me  what  has  happened  since  yesterday." 

"Nothing — everything.  Jason,  I  have  wronged  you.  It  is  no 
fault  of  yours,  but  now  I  know  I  do  not  love  you." 

He  turned  his  face  away  from  her,  and  when  he  spoke  again  his 
voice  broke  in  his  throat. 

"You  could  never  think  how  fast  and  close  my  love  will  grow. 
Let  us  wait,"  he  said. 

"It  would  be  useless,"  she  answered. 

"Stay,"  he  said  stiffly,  "do  you  love  any  one  else?" 

But  before  she  had  time  to  speak,  he  said  quickly: 

"Wait !  I've  no  right  to  ask  that  question,  and  I  will  not  hear 
you  answer  it." 

"You  are  very  noble,  Jason,"  she  said. 

"I  was  thinking  of  myself,"  he  said. 

"Jason,"  she  cried:  "I  meant  to  ask  you  to  release  me,  but 
you  have  put  me  to  shame  and  now  I  ask  you  to  choose  for  me.  I 
have  promised  myself  to  you,  and  if  you  wish  it  I  will  keep  my 
promise." 

At  that  he  stood,  a  sorrowful  man,  beside  her  for  a  moment's 
space  before  he  answered  her,  and  only  the  tones  of  his  voice  could 
tell  how  much  his  answer  cost  him : 

"No — ah,  no,"  he  said ;  "no,  Greeba,  to  keep  your  promise  to  me 
would  be  too  cruel  to  you." 

"Think  of  yourself  now,"  she  cried. 

"There's  no  need  to  do  that,"  he  said,  "for  either  way  I  am  a 
broken  man.  But  you  shall  not  also  be  broken-hearted,  and  neither 
shall  the  man  who  parts  us." 

Saying  this,  a  ghastly  white  hand  seemed  to  sweep  across  his 
face,  but  at  the  next  moment  he  smiled  feebly  and  said,  "God  bless 
you  both." 

Then  he  turned  to  go,  but  Greeba  caught  him  by  both  hands. 

"Jason,"  she  murmured,  "it  is  true  I  can  not  love  you,  but  if 
there  was  another  name  for  love  that  is  not — " 


THE   BONDMAN  145 

He  twisted  back  to  her  as  she  spoke,  and  his  face  was  unutter- 
ably mournful  to  see.  "Don't  look  at  me  like  that,"  he  said,  and 
drew  away. 

She  felt  her  face  flush  deep,  for  she  was  ashamed.  Love 
was  her  pole-star.  What  was  Jason's?  Only  the  blankness  of 
despair. 

"Oh,  my  heart  will  break,"  she  cried.  "Jason,"  she  cried  again, 
and  again  she  grasped  his  hands,  and  again  their  eyes  met,  and 
then  the  brave  girl  put  her  quivering  lips  to  his. 

"Ah,  no,"  he  said,  in  a  husky  voice,  and  he  broke  from  her 
embrace. 


CHAPTER   VI 

ESAU^S  BITTER  CRY 

SHRINKING  from  every  human  face,  Jason  turned  in  his  dumb 
despair  toward  the  sea,  for  the  moan  of  its  long  dead  waves  seemed 
to  speak  to  him  in  a  voice  of  comfort  if  not  of  cheer.  The  year 
had  deepened  to  autumn,  and  the  chill  winds  that  scattered  the  salt 
spray,  the  white  curves  of  the  breakers,  the  mists,  the  dapple-gray 
clouds,  the  scream  of  the  sea-fowl,  all  suited  with  his  mood,  for 
at  the  fountains  of  his  own  being  the  great  deeps  were  broken  up. 

It  was  Tuesday,  and  every  day  thereafter  until  Saturday  he 
haunted  the  shore,  the  wild  headland  to  seaward,  and  the  lonesome 
rocks  on  the  south.  There,  bit  by  bit,  the  strange  and  solemn  idea 
of  unrequited  love  was  borne  in  upon  him.  It  was  very  hard  to 
understand.  For  one  short  day  the  image  of  a  happy  love  had  stood 
up  before  his  mind,  but  already  that  day  was  dead.  That  he  should 
never  again  clasp  her  hand  whom  he  loved,  that  all  was  over 
between  them — it  was  painful,  it  was  crushing. 

And  oh !  it  was  very  cruel.  His  life  seemed  as  much  ended  as 
if  he  had  taken  his  death-warrant,  for  life  without  hope  was  noth- 
ing worth.  The  future  he  had  fondly  built  up  for  both  of  them 
lay  broken  at  his  own  feet.  Oh,  the  irony  of  it  all !  There  were 
moments  when  evil  passions  arose  in  his  mind  and  startled  him. 
Standing  at  the  foot  of  the  long  crags  of  the  sea  he  would  break 
into  wild  peals  of  laughter,  or  shriek  out  in  rebellion  against  his 
sentence.  But  he  was  ashamed  of  these  impulses,  and  would  slink 
away  from  the  scene  of  them,  though  no  human  eye  had  there  been 
on  him,  like  a  dog  that  is  disgraced. 

Yet  he  felt  that  like  a  man  among  men  he  could  fight  anything 
7  Vol.  II. 


I46  THE   BONDMAX 

but  this  relentless  doom.  Anything,  anything— and  he  would  not 
shrink.  Life  and  love,  life  and  love — only  these,  and  all  would  be 
well.  But  no,  ah!  no,  not  for  him  was  either;  and  creeping  up  in 
the  dead  of  night  toward  Lague,  just  that  his  eyes  might  see,  though 
sorrow  dimmed  them,  the  house  where  she  lay  asleep,  the  strong 
man  would  sob  like  a  woman,  and  cry  out :  "Greeba !  Greeba ! 
Greeba !" 

But  with  the  coming  of  day  his  strength  would  return,  and 
watching  the  big  ships  outside  pass  on  to  north  and  south,  or  listen- 
ing to  the  merry  song  of  the  seamen  who  weighed  anchor  in  the 
bay,  he  told  himself  sadly,  but  without  pain,  that  his  life  in  the 
island  was  ended,  that  he  could  not  live  where  she  lived,  sur- 
rounded by  the  traces  of  her  presence,  that  something  called  him 
away,  and  that  he  must  go.  And,  having  thus  concluded,  his  spirits 
rose,  and  he  decided  to  stay  until  after  Sunday,  thinking  to  see 
her  then  in  church,  and  there  take  his  last  tender  look  of  her  and 
bid  her  farewell  in  silence,  for  he  could  not  trust  himself  to 
speak. 

So  he  passed  what  remained  of  his  time  until  then  without 
bitterness  or  gloom,  saying  within  himself  as  often  as  he  looked 
with  bereaved  eyes  toward  Lague,  where  it  lay  in  the  sunshine, 
"Live  on,  and  be  happy,  for  I  wish  you  no  ill.  Live  on,  and  the 
memory  of  all  this  will  pass  away." 

But  he  did  not  in  the  meantime  return  to  his  work  at  the  mill, 
which  stood  as  he  had  left  it  on  the  Tuesday  when  the  carpenter 
fixed  the  last  of  its  roof  timbers.  This,  with  the  general  rupture 
of  his  habits  of  life,  was  the  cause  of  sore 'worry  and  perplexity  to 
his  housemate. 

"Aw,  reg'lar  bruk— bruk  complete,"  old  Davy  said  far  and  wide. 

/'A  while  ago  ye  couldn'  hould  him  for  workin'  at  the  mill,  and  now 

he's  never  puttin'  a  sight  on  it,  and  good  goold  waitin'  for  him; 

and  showin'  no  pride — and  what  he's  thinkin'  of  no  one's  knowin'." 

Davy  tried  hard  to  sound  the  depth  of  Jason's  trouble,  but  hav- 
ing no  line  to  fathom  it  he  had  recourse  to  his  excellent  fancy. 

"Aw,  bless  yer  sowls,  the  thick  as  a  haddick  I  was,"  he  whis- 
pered one  day,  "and  me  wonderin'  why,  and  wonderin'  why,  and  the 
thing  as  plain  as  plain  what's  agate  of  the  poor  boy.  It's  divils 
that's  took  at  him — divils  in  the  head.  Aw,  yes,  and  two  of  them, 
for  it's  aisy  to  see  there's  fightin'  goin'  on  inside  of  him.  Aw,  yes, 
same  as  they  tell  of  in  Revelations;  and  I've  seen  the  like  when  I 
was  sailin'  forrin." 

Having  so  concluded,  old  Davy  thought  it  his  duty  to  consult 
an  old  body  that  lived  in  a  dark  tangle  of  birchwood  at  Ballaglass. 


THE   BONDMAN  147 

"It's  fit  to  make  a  man  cry  to  see  the  way  he's  goin',"  said  he, 
"and  a  few  good  words  can't  do  no  harm  any  way." 

The  old  woman  agreed  with  Davy  as  to  the  cause  of  trouble, 
and  said  that  Jason  must  be  somebody  after  all,  since  what  he 
had  was  a  malady  the  quality  was  much  subject  to;  for  to  her 
own  knowledge  the  "Clerk  o'  the  Rowls"  had  suffered  from  it  when 
a  little  dancing  girl  from  France  had  left  suddenly  for  England. 
Yet  she  made  no  question  but  she  could  cure  him,  if  Davy  could 
contrive  to  hang  about  his  neck  while  he  slept  a  piece  of  red  ribbon 
which  she  would  provide. 

It  was  not  easy  for  Davy  to  carry  out  his  instructions,  so  little 
did  Jason  rest,  but  he  succeeded  at  length,  and  thought  he  re- 
marked that  Jason  became  calmer  and  better  straightway. 

"But  bless  me,  I  was  wrong,"  said  he.  "It  was  four  divils  the 
poor  boy  had  in  his  head ;  and  two  of  them  are  gone,  but  the  other 
two  are  agate  of  him  still." 

When  Sunday  morning  came  Jason  made  himself  ready  for 
church,  and  then  lounged  at  the  doorway  of  old  Davy's  cottage  by 
the  dial,  to  watch  the  people  go  in  at  the  gate.  And  many  hailed 
him  as  they  went  by  in  the  sweet  sunshine,  and  some  observed 
among  themselves  that  in  a  few  days  his  face  had  grown  thin.  In 
twos  and  threes  they  passed,  while  Davy  rang  the  bell  from  the 
open  porch,  and  though  Jason  seemed  not  to  heed  any  of  them,  yet 
he  watched  them  one  by  one.  Matt  Mylechreest  he  saw,  and  Nary 
Crowe,  now  toothless  and  saintly,  and  Kane  Wade,  who  had 
trudged  down  from  Ballure,  and  his  wife  Bridget,  grown  wrinkled 
and  yellow,  and  some  bright  young  maidens,  too,  who  gave  a  side- 
long look  his  way,  and  John  Fairbrother — Gentleman  John — who 
tripped  along  with  silken  bows  on  the  toes  of  his  shoes.  But  one 
whom  he  looked  for  he  did  not  see,  and  partly  from  fear  that  she 
might  not  come,  and  partly  from  dread  lest  she  should  pass  him  so 
closely  by,  he  shambled  into  church  with  the  rest  before  the  bell 
had  stopped. 

He  had  not  often  been  to  church  during  the  four  years  that  he 
had  lived  on  the  island  and  the  people  made  way  for  him  as  he 
pushed  up  into  a  dark  corner  under  tfie  gallery.  There  he  sat 
and  watched  as  before  out  of  his  slow  eyes,  never  shifting  their 
quiet  gaze  from  the  door  of  tfie  porcK.  But  the  bell  stopped,  and 
Greeba  had  not  come;  and  when  Parson  Gell  hobbled  up  to  tKe 
Communion-rail,  still  Greeba  was  not  there.  Then  th'e  service  was 
begun,  the  door  was  closed,  and  Jason  lay  back  and  shut  h'is  eyes. 
The  prayers  were  said  without  Jason  hearing  them,  but  while  the 
first  lesson  was  being  read,  his  wandering  mind  was  suddenly  ar- 


I48  THE    BONDMAN 

rested.  It  was  the  story  of  Jacob  and  Esau;  how  Isaac,  their 
father,  seeing  the  day  of  his  death  at  hand,  sent  Esau  for  venison, 
that  he  might  eat  and  bless  him  before  he  died;  how  Jacob  under 
the  person  of  Esau  obtained  the  blessing,  and  how  Esau  vowed  to 
slay  his  brother  Jacob. 

"And  Isaac  his  father  said  unto  him,  Who  art  thou?  And  he 
said,  I  am  thy  son,  thy  firstborn  Esau. 

"And  Isaac  trembled  very  exceedingly,  and  said,  Who?  Where 
is  he  that  hath  taken  venison,  and  brought  it  me,  and  I  have  eaten 
of  all  before  thou  earnest,  and  have  blessed  him?  yea,  and  he  shall 
be  blessed. 

"And  when  Esau  heard  the  words  of  his  father,  he  cried  with  a 
great  and  exceeding  bitter  cry,  and  said  unto  his  father,  Bless  me, 
even  me  also,  O  my  father. 

"And  Isaac  his  father  answered  and  said  unto  him,  Behold, 
thy  dwelling  shall  be  the  fatness  of  the  earth,  and  of  the  dew  of 
heaven  from  above; 

"And  by  thy  sword  shalt  thou  live,  and  shalt  serve  thy  brother ; 
and  it  shall  come  to  pass  when  thou  shalt  have  the  dominion,  that 
thou  shalt  break  his  yoke  from  off  thy  neck. 

"And  Esau  hated  Jacob  because  of  the  blessing  wherewith  his 
father  blessed  him :  and  Esau  said  in  his  heart,  The  days  of  mourn- 
ing for  my  father  are  at  hand ;  then  will  I  slay  my  brother  Jacob." 

As  Parson  Cell  at  the  reading-desk  mumbled  these  words 
through  his  toothless  gums,  it  seemed  to  Jason  as  though  he  were 
awakening  from  a  long  sleep— a  sleep  of  four  years,  a  sleep  full 
of  dreams,  both  sweet  and  sad — and  that  everything  was  coming 
back  upon  him  in  a  dizzy  whirl.  He  remembered  his  mother,  her 
cruel  life,  her  death,  and  his  own  vow,  and  so  vivid  did  tKese 
recollections  grow  in  a  moment  that  he  trembled  with  excitement. 

A  woman  in  a  black  crape  bonnet,  who  sat  next  to  him  in  the 
pew,  saw  his  emotions,  and  put  a  Bible  into  his  hands.  He  accepted 
it  with  a  slight  movement  of  the  head,  but  when  he  tried  to  find  the 
place  Ke  turned  dizzy  and  his  hands  shook.  Seeing  this  the  good 
woman,  with  a  look  of  pity  and  a  thought  of  her  runaway  son 
who  was  far  off,  took  the  Bible  back",  and  after  opening  it  at  trie 
chapter  in  Genesis,  returned  it  in  silence.  Even  then  he  did  not 
read,  but  sat  with  wandering  eyes,  while  nervous  twitches  crossed1 
his  face. 

He  was  thinking  that  he  had  forgotten  his  great  vow  of  ven- 
geance, lulled  to  sleep  by  his  vain  dream  of  love ;  he  was  telling  him- 
self that  his  vow  must  yet  be  fulfilled  or  his  motfier  who  had  urged 


THE   BONDMAN  149 

him  to  it,  would  follow  him  with  her  curse  from  her  grave.  For 
some  minutes  this  feeling  grew  more  and  more  powerful,  and  more 
and  more  his  limbs  and  whole  body  quivered.  The  poor  woman 
in  the  crape  saw  that  he  trembled,  and  leaned  toward  him  and  asked 
if  he  was  ill.  But  he  only  shook  his  head  and  drew  back  in  silence 
into  the  corner  of  the  pew. 

"I  must  be  going  mad,"  he  thought,  and  to  steady  his  mind  he 
turned  to  the  book,  thinking  to  follow  the  old  parson  as  he  lisped 
along. 

It  was  a  reference  Bible  that  the  woman  had  lent  him,  and  as 
his  eyes  rambled  over  the  page,  never  resting  until  they  lit  on  the 
words,  then  will  I  slay  my  brother  Jacob,  he  shuddered  and  thought 
"How  hideous !"  All  at  once  he  marked  the  word  slay  in  the  mar- 
gin with  many  references  to  it,  and  hardly  knowing  what  he  was 
doing  he  turned  up  the  first  of  them.  From  that  moment  his  senses 
were  in  a  turmoil,  and  he  knew  nothing  clearly  of  all  that  was  being 
done  about  him.  He  thought  he  saw  that  through  all  ages  God 
had  made  man  the  instrument  of  his  vengeance  on  the  wrongdoer. 
The  stories  of  Moses,  of  Saul,  of  Samson,  came  back  to  him  one  by 
one,  and  as  he  read  a  chill  terror  filled  his  whole  being. 

He  put  the  book  down,  trying  to  compose  himself,  and  then  he 
thought,  "How  childish!  God  is  King  of  earth  and  heaven,  and 
needs  the  help  of  no  man."  But  his  nervous  fingers  could  not 
rest  and  he  took  up  the  Bible  again,  while  the  parson  prosed 
through  his  short  sermon.  This  time  he  turned  away  from  the 
passages  that  haunted  him,  though  "Esau,  Esau,  Esau,"  rang  in 
his  head.  Rolling  the  leaves  in  his  hand,  he  read  in  one  place  how 
the  Lord  visits  His  vengeance  upon  the  children  for  the  sins  of 
the  fathers,  and  then  in  another  place  how  the  nearest  of  kin  to 
him  that  is  killed  shall  avenge  the  blood  spilt,  and  then  again  in  yet 
another  place  how  if  man  keeps  not  his  covenant  with  the  Lord, 
the  Lord  will  send  a  faintness  upon  him,  and  a  great  and  woful 
trembling,  so  that  the  sound  of  a  shaken  leaf  shall  chase  him. 

"Am  I  then  afraid?"  he  asked  himself,  and  shut  the  book  once 
more.  His  head  swam  with  vague  thoughts.  "I  must  keep  my 
vow,"  he  thought.  "I  am  losing  my  senses,"  he  thought  again. 
"I  am  an  Esau,"  he  thought  once  more. 

Then  he  looked  around  the  church,  and  if  he  had  seen  Greeba 
at  that  moment  the  fire  of  his  heart  would  have  burnt  itself  out, 
and  all  thought  of  his  vow  would  have  gone  from  him  as  it  had 
gone  before.  He  did  not  see  her,  but  he  remembered  her,  and 
his  soul  dried  away. 

The  service  came  to  an  end,  and  he  strode  off,  turning  from 


ISO  THE   BONDMAN 

every  face;  but  John  Fairbrother  tripped  after  him  on  the  road, 
touched  him  on  the  arm,  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smirk,  and  said: 

"Then  you  don't  know  where  she  is?" 

"Who?"  said  Jason. 

"Then  you  don't  know,  eh?"  said  John,  with  a  meaning  look. 

"Who  d'ye  mean? — Greeba?" 

"Just  so.  She's  gone,  though  I  warrant  it's  fetching  coals  to 
Newcastle  to  tell  you  so." 

Hearing  that,  Jason  pushed  Gentleman  John  out  of  his  way 
with  a  lunge  that  sent  the  dandy  reeling,  and  bounded  off  toward 
Lague. 

"Aw,  well,"  muttered  John,  "you'd  really  think  he  didn't  know." 

The  woman  in  crape  who  had  followed  Jason  out  of  the  church, 
thinking  to  speak  to  him,  said :  "Lave  him  alone.  It's  the  spirit  of 
the  Lord  that's  strivin'  with  him." 

And  old  Davy,  who  came  up  at  the  moment,  said :  "Divils,  ma'am 
— divils  in  the  head." 

When  Jason  got  to  Lague  he  found  the  other  Fairbrothers 
assembled  there.  Asher  had  missed  Greeba  the  night  before,  and 
on  rising  late  that  morning — Sunday  morning — he  had  so  far  con- 
quered his  laziness  as  to  walk  round  to  his  brothers'  houses  and  in- 
quir  for  her.  All  six,  except  John,  had  then  trudged  back  to 
Lague,  thinking  in  their  slow  way  to  start  a  search,  and  they  began 
their  quest  by  ransacking  Greeba's  room.  There  they  found  two 
letters  in  a  chest,  clearly  forgotten  in  a  hasty  leave-taking.  One 
of  them  was  Greeba's  abandoned  letter  to  Red  Jason,  the  other 
was  the  letter  of  Michael  Sunlocks  to  Greeba.  The  Fairbrothers 
read  both  with  grim  wonderment,  and  Jacob  put  Greeba's  letter 
in  his  pocket.  They  were  discussing  the  letter  of  Sunlooks  as 
Jason  entered;  and  they  fell  back  at  sight  of  his  ashy  face  and  the 
big  beads  of  sweat  that  dropped  from  it. 

"What's  this?  Where  is  she?"  he  said,  and  his  powerful  voice 
shook. 

Without  a  word  they  handed  him  the  letter,  and  he  glanced  it 
over  and  turned  it  in  his  hands,  like  one  who  does  not  see  or  can 
not  read. 

"Where's  she  gone?"  he  said  again>  lifting  his  helpless  eyes 
to  the  faces  about  him. 

"The  devil  knows,"  said  Jacob;  "but  see — read — 'Michael  Sun- 
locks,'  "  running  his  finger  along  the  signature. 

At  that  a  groan  like  the  growl  of  a  beast  came  from  Jason's 
throat,  and  like  a  baited  dog  he  looked  around,  not  yet  knowing 
on  whom  his  wrath  should  fasten. 


THE   BONDMAN  151 

"It's  very  simple.  It's  plain  to  see  that  she  has  gone  to  him," 
said  Jacob. 

And  then  Jason's  face  was  crossed  by  a  ghastly  smile. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  woman  of  a  man,"  he  muttered,  looking  stupidly 
down  at  the  paper  in  his  hand.  "A  poor-spirited  fool,"  he  mut- 
tered again.  "I  must  be  so,  God  knows."  But  at  the  next  moment 
his  white  face  grew  blood-red,  and  he  cried :  "My  curse  upon  him," 
and  with  that  he  tossed  back  the  letter  and  swung  out  of  the  house. 

He  went  on  to  Port-y-Vullin,  mounted  the  new  mill,  threw  down 
the  roof  rafters,  and  every  wall  that  they  had  rested  upon,  until 
not  one  stone  was  left  above  another,  and  the  house,  so  near  com- 
pletion, was  only  a  heap  of  ruins.  Then  he  went  into  the  old  hut, 
took  up  his  treasures  and  flung  them  out  to  sea. 

Meantime,  the  six  Fairbrothers  were  putting  their  heads 
together. 

"President!"  said  Thurstan;  "that's  as  good  as  Governor- 
General." 

"The  deuce!"  said  John. 

"She'll  be  rich,  said  Ross.  "I  always  said  she  was  fit  for  a 
lady." 

"Hum!    We've  made  a  mess  of  it,"  said  Stean. 

"Well,  you  wouldn't  take  my  advice,"  said  Asher.  "I  was  for 
treating  the  girl  fair." 

"Stay,"  said  Jacob,  "it's  not  yet  too  late." 

"Well,  what's  to  be  done  ?"  said  the  others  together. 

"Go  after  her,"  said  Jacob. 

"Ah !" 

"Hum !  Listen !  This  is  what  we  had  better  do,"  said  Jacob. 
"Sell  Ballacraine  and  take  her  the  money,  and  tell  her  we  never 
meant  to  keep  it  from  her." 

"That's  good,"  said  John. 

"A  Governor-General  has  pickings,  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Jacob. 

"But  who'll  go?"  said  Asher. 

"Go!  Hum!  What!  The  deuce!  Well,  I  mightn't  refuse 
to  go  myself,"  said  Jacob. 

"And  maybe  I  wouldn't  mind  going  with  you,"  said  John. 

And  so  it  was  settled.  But  the  other  four  said  to  themselves: 
"What  about  the  pickings?"  And  then  each,  of  himself,  con- 
cluded secretly  that  if  Jacob  and  John  went  to  Iceland,  Jacob  and 
John  would  get  all  that  was  to  be  got  by  going,  and  that  to  prevent 
such  cheating  it  would  be  necessary  to  go  with  them. 


152  THE   BONDMAN 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE    YOKE    OF    JACOB 

JASON  paid  the  last  of  his  debts  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  and  then 
set  sail  for  Iceland  with  less  money  in  his  pocket  than  Adam  Fair- 
brother  had  carried  there.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  whereabouts 
or  condition  of  the  man  he  was  going  to  seek,  except  that  Michael 
Sunlocks  was  at  Reykjavik;  for  so  much,  and  no  more,  he  had  read 
of  the  letter  that  the  Fairbrothers  put  into  his  hands  at  Lague. 
The  ship  he  first  sailed  by  was  a  trader  between  Copenhagen  and 
the  greater  ports  of  Scotland  and  Ireland,  and  at  the  Danish  cap- 
ital he  secured  a  passage  in  a  whaler  bound  for  Reykjavik.  His 
double  voyage  covered  more  than  six  weeks  though  there  was  a 
strong  fair  wind  from  the  coast  of  Scotland  to  the  coast  of  Den- 
mark, and  again  from  Denmark  to  Iceland.  The  delay  fretted 
him,  for  his  heart  was  afire;  but  there  was  no  help  for  it,  he  had 
to  submit.  He  did  so  with  no  cheer  of  spirit,  or  he  might  have 
learned  something  from  the  yarns  of  the  seamen.  All  the  gossip 
that  came  his  way  was  a  chance  remark  of  the  master,  a  Dane,  who 
one  day  stopped  in  front  of  him  as  he  lay  by  the  hatches,  and  asked  if 
he  was  an  Icelander  born.  He  answered  that  he  was.  Was  he 
a  seagoing  man?  Yes.  Ship-broken,  maybe,  in  some  foreign 
country?  That  was  so.  How  long  had  he  been  away  from  Ice- 
land? Better  than  four  years. 

"You'll  see  many  changes  since  that  time,"  said  the  master, 
"Old  Iceland  is  turned  topsy-turvy." 

Jason  understood  this  to  mean  some  political  revolution,  and 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  it,  for  such  things  seemed  but  sorry  trifling  to 
one  with  work  like  his  before  him. 

They  had  then  just  sighted  the  Westmann  Islands,  through 
a  white  sea  vapor,  and  an  hour  later  they  lay  three  miles  off  a  rocky 
point,  while  an  open  boat  came  out  to  them  over  the  rough  water 
from  the  island  called  Home. 

It  was  the  post-boat  of  that  desolate  rock,  fetching  letters  from 
the  mainland,  and  ready  to  receive  them  from  Denmark.  The  post- 
man was  little  and  old,  and  his  name  was  Patricksen. 

"Well,  Patricksen,  and  what's  the  latest  from  the  old  country?" 


THE   BONDMAN  153 

sang  out  the  master,  after  two  newspapers  had  been  thrown  down 
and  one  letter  taken  up. 

"Why,  and  haven't  you  heard  it?"  shouted  the  postman. 

"What's  that?"  cried  the  master. 

"They've  put  up  the  young  Manxman,"  shouted  the  postman. 
"I  knew  his  father,"  he  added,  and  laughed  mockingly,  as  he  bent  to 
the  oars  and  started  back  with  his  newspapers  over  his  three  miles 
of  tumbling  sea. 

Jason's  mind  threw  off  its  torpor  at  the  sound  of  those  words. 
While  the  boat  lay  alongside  he  leaned  over  the  gunwale  and  lis- 
tened eagerly.  When  it  sheered  off  he  watched  it  until  it  had  faded 
into  a  fog.  Then  he  turned  to  the  master  and  was  about  to  ask  a 
question,  but  quickly  recovered  himself  and  was  silent.  "Better 
not,"  he  thought.  "It  would  be  remembered  when  all  should  be 
over." 

Late  the  same  day  they  came  for  the  first  time  in  full  view  of 
the  southeast  coast  of  Iceland.  The  fog  had  lifted  before  a  strong 
breeze  from  the  west,  where  the  red  sun  was  dipping  into  the  sea. 
They  were  then  by  the  needles  of  Portland,  side  on  to  the  vast  arch 
which  the  heavy  blow  of  the  tides  of  ten  thousand  years  has  beaten 
out  of  the  rock.  At  the  sea's  edge  were  a  hundred  jagged  prongs 
of  burnt  crag,  flecked  with  the  white  wings  and  echoing  with 
the  wild  cry  of  countless  sea  birds ;  behind  that  was  a  plain  of  lava 
dust  for  sea-beach ;  farther  back  the  dome  of  a  volcano,  lying  asleep 
under  its  coverlet  of  snow;  still  farther  a  gray  glacier,  glistening 
with  silver  spikes;  and  beyond  all  a  black  jokull,  Wilderness- 
jokull,  torn  by  many  earthquakes,  seamed  and  streaked  with  the  un- 
melted  ice  of  centuries  and  towering  over  a  stony  sea  of  desert, 
untrodden  yet  by  the  foot  of  man. 

Desolate  as  the  scene  was,  Jason  melted  at  the  sight  of  it;  for 
this  island,  born  of  fire  and  frost,  stood  to  him  as  the  only  place 
in  God's  wide  world  that  he  could  call  his  home,  and  little  as  it  had 
done  for  him,  less  than  nothing  as  he  owed  to  it,  yet  it  was  his 
native  land,  and  in  coming  back  to  its  bleak  and  terrible  shores  he 
looked  upon  it  with  a  thrill  of  the  heart  and  saw  it  through  his 
tears. 

But  he  had  little  time  and  less  desire  to  give  way  to  tender 
feelings,  and  very  soon  he  had  small  need  to  steel  himself  to  the 
work  before  him,  for  everything  served  to  spur  him  on  to  it.  This 
was  Iceland.  This  was  the  new  home  of  Michael  Sunlocks.  This 
was  where  his  mother  had  starved. 

This  was  where  she  had  fled  to,  who  had  wronged  him  sorely. 

Early  the  next  day  they  rounded  the  Smoky  Point,  leaving  the 


154 


THE    BONDMAN 


Old  Man  crag  under  its  shocks  of  foam  to  the  right,  and  the  rock 
called  the  Mealsack,  under  its  white  cloud  of  sea  gulls,  to  the  left, 
and  began  to  beat  down  the  fiord  toward  Reykjavik.  It  was  not 
yet  six  o'clock — the  Icelandic  mid-evening — when  they  cast  anchor 
inside  the  little  island  of  Engy;  but  the  year  was  far  worn  toward 
winter,  and  the  night  of  the  northern  land  had  closed  down. 

And  the  time  having  come  to  leave  the  whaler,  Jason  remem- 
bered that  he  had  been  but  a  moody  companion  for  his  shipmates, 
though  they  had  passed  some  perilous  days  and  nights  together. 
So  he  bade  them  good-by  with  what  cheer  he  could  summon  up  at 
last,  and  the  rough  fellows  kissed  him  after  the  manner  of  their 
people,  showing  no  rancor  at  all,  but  only  pity,  and  saying  among 
themselves  that  it  was  plain  to  see  he  had  known  trouble  and,  though 
given  to  strange  outbursts  when  alone,  was  as  simple  and  as  gentle 
as  a  child,  and  would  never  hurt  a  fly. 

He  had  hailed  a  passing  boat  to  run  him  ashore,  and  it  was  one 
of  the  light  skiffs  with  the  double  prow  that  the  boys  of  Iceland 
use  when  they  hunt  among  the  rocks  for  the  eggs  and  down  of  the 
eider  duck.  Such,  indeed,  though  so  late  in  the  season,  had  that  day 
been  the  work  of  the  two  lads  whose  boat  he  had  chanced  upon,  and 
having  dropped  down  to  their  side  from  the  whaler  with  his  few 
belongings — his  long  coat  of  Manx  homespun  over  his  arm,  his  sea- 
man's boots  across  his  shoulders,  his  English  fowling-piece  in  his 
hand  and  his  pistol  in  his  belt — he  began  to  talk  with  them  of  their 
calling  as  one  who  knew  it. 

"Where  have  you  been  working,  my  lads?"  said  Javson. 

"Out  on  Engy,"  said  the  elder  of  the  boys. 

"Found  much?" 

"Not  to-day." 

"Who  cleans  it?" 

"Mother." 

And  at  that  a  frown  passed  over  Jason's  face  in  the  darkness. 
The  boys  were  thinly  clad,  both  were  barelegged  and  barefooted. 
Plainly  they  were  brothers,  one  of  them  being  less  than  twelve 
years  of  age,  and  the  other  as  young  as  nine. 

"What's   your  father?" 

"Father's  dead,"  said  the  lad. 

"Where  do  you  live  with  your  mother?" 

"Down  on  the  shore  yonder,  below  the  silversmith's." 

"The  little  house  behind  the  Missions,  in  front  of  the  vats?" 

"Yes,  sir,  do  you  know  it?" 

"I  was  born  in  it,  my  lad,"  said  Jason  sadly,  and  he  thought 
to  himself,  "Then  the  old  mother  is  dead." 


THE   BONDMAN  155 

But  he  also  thought  of  his  own  mother,  and  her  long  years  of 
worse  than  widowhood.  "All  that  has  yet  to  be  paid  for,"  he  told 
himself  with  a  cold  shudder,  and  then  he  remembered  that  he  had 
just  revealed  himself. 

"See,  my  lads,"  he  said,  "here  is  a  crown  for  you,  and  say  noth- 
ing of  who  gave  it  you." 

The  little  Icelandic  capital  twinkled  low  at  the  water's  edge, 
and  as  they  came  near  to  it  Jason  saw  that  there  was  a  flare  of 
torchlights  and  open  fires,  with  dark  figures  moving  busily  before 
the  glow  where  he  looked  for  the  merchant  stores  that  had  faced 
the  sea. 

"What's  this  ?"  he  asked. 

"The  fort  that  the  new  Governor  is  throwing  up,"  said  the  boy. 

Then  through  a  number  of  smacks,  some  schooners,  a  brig,  a  coal 
hulk  and  many  small  boats,  they  ran  in  at  the  little  wooden  jetty 
that  forked  out  over  a  reef  of  low  rocks.  And  there  some  idlers 
who  sat  on  casks  under  the  lamp,  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets 
and  their  skin  caps  squashed  down  on  their  foreheads,  seemed  to 
recognize  Jason  as  he  landed. 

"Lord  bless  me,"  said  one,  with  a  look  of  terror,  "it's  the  dead 
come  to  life  again." 

"God-a-mercy  me,"  said  another,  pausing  with  his  snuff  at  his 
nose,  "I  could  have  sworn  I  fetched  him  a  dead  man  out  of  the  sea." 

Jason  knew  them,  but  before  they  had  so  far  regained  their 
self-command  as  to  hail  to  him,  he  had  faced  about,  though  eager 
to  ask  many  questions,  and  walked  away.  "Better  not,"  he  thought, 
and  hurried  pn. 

He  took  the  High  Street  toward  the  Inn,  and  then  an  irregular 
alley  that  led  past  the  lake  to  a  square  in  front  of  the  Cathedral, 
and  ended  at  a  little  house  of  basaltic  blocks  that  nestled  at  its 
feet,  for  it  was  there  he  meant  to  lodge.  It  had  been  the  home  of 
a  worthy  couple  whom  he  had  known  in  the  old  days,  caretakers  of 
the  Cathedral,  and  his  mother's  only  friends  in  her  last  days.  Old 
and  feeble  and  very  deaf  they  had  both  been  then,  and  as  he  strode 
along  in  the  darkness  he  wondered  if  he  should  find  them  still  alive. 
He  found  them  as  he  had  left  them:  not  otherwise  changed  than 
if  the  five  years  of  his  absence  had  been  but  five  hours.  The  old 
man  was  still  at  the  hearth  chopping  up  some  logs  of  driftwood, 
and  the  old  woman  was  still  at  the  table  ironing  her  linen  by  the 
light  of  a  rush  candle.  With  uplifted  hands  and  cries  of  wonder- 
ment they  received  him,  and  while  he  supped  on  the  porridge  and 
skyr  that  they  set  before  him  they  talked  and  questioned. 

"And  where  have  you  been  this  many  a  day  ?"  said  the  old  man. 


156  THE   BONDMAN 

"In  England,   Scotland,  Denmark — many  places,"   said  Jason. 

"Well,  they've  buried  you  these  four  years  and  better,"  said  the 
old  man,  with  a  grimace. 

"Lord  bless  me,  yes,  love ;  and  a  cross  over  your  grave  too,  and 
your  name  on  it,"  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  look  of  awe. 

"Who  did  that?"  said  Jason. 

"Jorgen  Jorgensen,"  said  the  old  man,  grinning. 

"It's  next  to  your  mother's,  love.  He  did  that,  too,  for  when  he 
heard  that  she  was  gone  he  repented,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"It's  no  good  folks  repenting  when  their  bad  work's  done  and 
done  with,"  said  the  old  man. 

"That's  what  I  say.  There's  them  above  that  won't  call  it  re- 
penting. And  see  what  has  come  of  it,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"What?"  said  Jason. 

"Why,  he  has  gone.  Didn't  you  know,  love?"  said  the  old 
woman. 

"How  gone?"  said  Jason.     "Dead?" 

"Worse — disgraced — driven  out  of  Iceland,"    said  the  old  man. 

Then  an  ugly  smile  crossed  Jason's  face.  "It  is  the  beginning," 
he  thought. 

"But  the  old  mother  is  dead,  is  she  not?"  he  said  aloud. 

"Your  father's  mother?  Old  Mother  Orryson?"  said  the  old 
woman. 

"No  such  luck,"  the  old  man  muttered.  "Comes  to  service  every 
morning,  the  old  sinner." 

"But  there's  another  family  living  in  her  house,"  said  Jason. 

"Oh,  that's  because  she's  past  her  work,  and  the  new  Governor 
keeps  her,"  said  the  old  man.  "No  news  of  your  father,  though," 
he  added,  with  a  shrug,  and  then  there  was  a  silence  for  some 
minutes. 

"Poor  Rachel,"  said  the  old  woman,  presently.  "Now  there 
was  a  good  creature.  And  bless  me,  how  she  was  wrapped  up  in  her 
boy!  I  was  just  like  that  when  I  had  my  poor  little  Olaf.  I  never 
had  but  one  child  neither.  Well,  my  lad,"  she  said,  dropping  her  flat- 
iron  and  raising  her  apron,  "you  can  say  you  had  a  good  mother 
anyhow." 

Jason  finished  his  supper  and  went  out  into  the  town.  All 
thoughts,  save  one  thought,  had  been  banished  from  his  mind. 
Where  was  this  Michael  Sunlocks?  What  was  he?  How  was  he 
to  be  met  with?  "Better  not  ask,"  thought  Jason.  "Wait  and 
watch."  And  so  he  walked  on.  Dark  as  was  the  night,  he  knew 
every  step  of  the  way.  The  streets  looked  smaller  and  meaner  than 
he  remembered  them,  and  yet  they  showed  an  unwonted  animation. 


THE   BONDMAN  157 

Oil  lamps  hung  over  many  stalls,  the  stores  were  still  open  and 
people  passed  to  and  fro  in  little  busy  throngs.  Recalling  that 
heavy  quiet  of  that  hour  of  night  five  years  ago,  Jason  said  to  him- 
self, "The  town  has  awakened  from  a  long  sleep." 

To  avoid  the  glances  of  prying  eyes,  he  turned  down  toward  the 
bridge,  passing  the  Deanery  and  the  Bishop's  Palace.  There  the 
streets  were  all  but  as  quiet  as  of  old,  the  windows  showed  few 
lights,  and  the  monotonous  chime  of  the  sea  came  up  through  the 
silence  from  the  iron-bound  shore.  Yet,  even  there,  from  two 
houses,  there  were  sounds  of  work.  These  were  the  Latin  school 
and  the  jail.  In  the  school  a  company  of  students  was  being  drilled 
by  a  sergeant,  whose  words  of  command  rang  out  in  the  intervals 
of  shuffling  feet. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  said  Jason  to  a  group  of  young  girls, 
who,  with  shawls  over  their  heads,  were  giggling  together  in  the 
darkness  by  the  gate. 

"It's  the  regiment  started  by  the  new  Governor,"  said  one  of  the 
girls. 

"The  new  Governor  again,"  thought  Jason,  and  turned  away. 

From  the  jail  there  came  a  noise  as  of  carpenters  hammering. 

"What  are  they  doing  there?"  said  Jason  to  a  little  tailor,  who 
passed  him  on  the  street  at  that  moment  with  his  black  bag 
on  his  back. 

"Turning  the  jail  into  a  house  for  the  new  Governor,"  said  the 
tailor. 

"Again  the  new  Governor,"  said  Jason,  and  he  strode  on  by 
the  tailor's  side.  "A  stirring  fellow,  whoever  he  may  be." 

"That's  true,  young  as  he  is,"  said  the  tailor. 

"Is  he  then  so  young?"  said  Jason,  carelessly. 

"Four  or  five  and  twenty,  hardly  more,"  said  the  tailor,  "but 
with  a  headpiece  fit  for  fifty.  He  has  driven  those  Danish  thieves 
out  of  the  old  country,  with  all  their  trick  and  truck.  Why,  you 
couldn't  call  your  bread  your  own — no,  nor  your  soul  neither. 
Oh,  a  Daniel,  sir — a  young  Daniel.  He's  to  be  married  soon. 
She's  staying  with  the  old  Bishop  now.  They  say  she's  a  foreigner." 

"Who?"  said  Jason. 

"Why,  his  wife  that  is  to  be,"  said  the  tailor.  "Good-night, 
sir,"  he  cried,  and  turned  down  an  alley. 

Then  Jason  remembered  Greeba,  and  the  hot  blood  tingled  in 
his  cheeks.  Never  yet  for  an  instant  had  it  come  to  him  to  think 
that  Michael  Sunlocks  and  the  new  Governor  were  the  same  man, 
and  that  Greeba  and  his  bride  were  one.  But  telling  himself  that 
she  might  even  then  be  in  that  little  town,  with  nothing  but  the 


I58  THE   BONDMAN 

darkness  hiding  him  from  her  sight,  he  shuddered  at  the  near 
chance  of  being  discovered  by  her,  and  passed  on  by  the  river 
toward  the  sea.  Yet,  being  alone  there,  with  only  the  wash  of 
the  waves  for  company,  he  felt  his  great  resolve  begin  to  pall,  as  a 
hundred  questions  rose  to  torment  him.  Suppose  she  were  here, 
and  they  were  to  meet,  dare  he  after  all  do  that?  Though  she 
loved  this  man,  could  he  still  do  that?  Oh,  was  it  not  horrible 
to  think  of — that  he  should  cross  the  seas  for  that? 

So,  to  put  an  end  to  the  torture  of  such  questionings,  and 
escape  from  himself,  he  turned  back  from  the  shore  to  where  the 
crowds  looked  thickest  in  the  town.  He  went  as  he  came,  by  the 
bank  of  the  river,  and  when  he  was  crossing  the  bridge  some  one 
shot  past  him  on  a  horse  It  was  a  man,  and  he  drew  up  sharply 
at  the  Bishop's  Palace,  threw  his  reins  over  the  pier  of  the  gate, 
and  bounded  into  the  house  with  the  light  foot  that  goes  with  a  light 
heart.  "The  new  Governor,"  thought  Jason,  though  he  had  seen 
him  only  as  a  shadow.  "Who  is  he,  I  wonder?"  he  thought  again, 
and  with  a  sigh  for  his  own  condition  within  sight  of  this  man's 
happiness  he  pushed  heavily  along. 

Hardly  had  he  got  back  into  the  town  when  he  was  seen  and 
recognized,  for  with  a  whoop  and  a  spring  and  a  jovial  oath  a  tipsy 
companion  of  former  days  came  sweeping  down  upon  him  from  the 
open  door  of  a  drinking-shop. 

"What  ?  Jason  ?  Bless  my  soul !  Come  in,"  the  fellow  cried, 
embracing  him;  and  to  avoid  the  curious  gaze  of  the  throng  that 
had  gathered  on  the  pavement  Jason  allowed  himself  to  be  led  into 
the  house. 

"Well,  God  save  us !  So  you're  back !  But  I  heard  you  had 
come.  Old  Jon  Olafsson  told  us.  He  was  down  at  the  jetty. 
Boys,"  the  fellow  shouted  to  a  little  company  of  men  who  sat 
drinking  in  the  hot  parlor,  "he's  another  Lazarus,  come  back  from 
the  dead." 

"Here's  to  his  goot  healt,  den,"  said  a  fat  Dutch  captain,  who 
sat  on  the  hearth,  strumming  a  fiddle  to  tune  it. 

And  while  the  others  laughed  and  drank,  a  little  deformed 
dwarf  in  a  corner  with  an  accordion  between  his  twisted  fingers  be- 
gan to  play  and  sing. 

"This  is  the  last  thing  that  should  have  happened,"  thought 
Jason,  and  with  many  excuses  he  tried  to  elbow  his  way  out.  But 
the  tipsy  comrade  held  him  while  he  rattled  on: 

"Been  away — foreign,  eh?  Married  since?  No?  Then  the 
girls  of  old  Iceland  are  best,  eh  ?  What  ?  Yes  ?  And  old  Iceland's 
the  fairest  land  the  sun  shines  upon,  eh?  No?  But,  Lord  bless 


THE   BONDMAN  159 

me,  what  a  mess  you  made  of  it  by  going  away  just  when  you 
did !" 

At  that  Jason,  while  pushing  his  way  through,  turned  about 
with  a  look  of  inquiry. 

"Didn't  know  it?  What?  That  after  the  mother  died  old 
Jorgen  went  about  looking  for  you?  No?  Wanted?  Why,  to 
make  a  man  of  you,  boy.  Make  you  his  son  and  the  like  of  that, 
and  not  too  soon  either.  And  when  he  couldn't  find  you  he  took 
up  with  this  Michael  Sunlocks." 

"Michael  Sunlocks?"  Jason  repeated,  in  a  distant  sort  of  voice. 

"Just  so ;  this  precious  new  Governor  that  wants  to  put  down  all 
the  drinking." 

"The  new  Governor?" 

"Yes.  Put  your  nose  out,  boy;  for  that  was  the  start  of  his 
luck." 

Jason  felt  dizzy,  and  under  the  hard  tan  of  his  skin  his  face 
grew  white. 

"You  should  know  him,  though.  No?  Well,  after  old  Jorgen 
had  quarreled  with  him,  everybody  said  he  was  a  kind  of  bastard 
brother  of  yours." 

The  reeking  place  had  got  hotter.  It  was  now  stifling, 
and  Jason  stumbled  out  into  the  street. 

Michael  Sunlocks  was  the  new  Governor,  and  Michael  Sunlocks 
was  about  to  be  married  to  Greeba.  Thrice  had  this  man  robbed 
him  of  his  blessing,  standing  in  the  place  that  ought  to  have  been 
his;  once  with  his  father,  once  with  Greeba,  and  once  again  with 
Jorgen  Jorgensen. 

He  tried  to  reckon  it  all  up,  but  do  what  he  would  he  could  not 
keep  his  mind  from  wandering.  The  truth  had  fallen  upon  him  at 
a  blow,  and  under  his  strong  emotions  his  faculties  seemed  to  be 
slain  in  a  moment.  He  felt  blind,  and  deaf,  and  unable  to  think. 
Presently,  without  knowing  where  he  was  going,  but  impelled  by 
some  blind  force,  and  staggering  along  like  a  drunken  man,  he 
found  himself  approaching  the  Bishop's  Palace. 

"He  is  there,"  he  thought :  "the  man  who  has  stood  in  my  place 
all  his  days :  the  man  who  has  stripped  me  of  every  good  thing  in 
life.  He  is  there,  in  honor,  and  wealth,  and  happiness;  and  I  am 
here,  a  homeless  outcast  in  the  night.  Oh,  that  I  could  do  it  now — 
now — now — !" 

But  at  that  he  remembered  that  he  had  never  yet  seen  Michael 
Sunlocks,  to  know  him  from  another  man.  "I  must  wait,"  he 
thought.  "I  must  go  to  work  cautiously.  I  must  see  him  first, 
and  watch  him." 


160  THE   BONDMAN 

The  night  was  then  far  spent  toward  midnight;  the  streets  had 
grown  quiet,  the  lights  of  the  town  no  longer  sent  a  yellow  glare 
over  the  grass-clad  housetops,  and  from  a  quiet  sky  the  moon  and 
stars  shone  out. 

Jason  was  turning  back  toward  his  lodgings  when  he  heard  a 
voice  that  made  him  stand.  It  was  a  woman's  voice  singing,  and  it 
came  with  the  undertones  of  some  string  instrument  from  the 
house  in  front  of  him.  After  a  moment  he  pushed  the  gate  open 
and  walked  across  the  little  grass  plot  until  he  came  beneath  the 
only  window  from  which  a  light  still  shone.  There  he  stopped  and 
listened,  laying  his  hand  on  the  sill  to  steady  himself. 

Ah!  now  he  knew  the  voice  too  well.  It  was  Greeba's.  She 
was  there;  she  was  on  the  other  side  of  that  wall  at  that  instant. 
And  she  was  singing.  It  was  a  love-song  that  she  sang.  Her  very 
heart  seemed  to  speak  in  it,  for  her  tones  were  the  tones  of  love, 
and  he  must  be  beside  her. 

"It  is  for  him  she  has  left  me,"  thought  Jason,  in  the  whirl 
of  his  dazed  brain ;  "for  him  and  his  place,  his  station,  and  the 
pride  of  his  success." 

Then,  remembering  how  his  love  of  this  woman  had  fooled  him 
through  five  treacherous  years,  turning  him  aside  from  thoughts 
of  his  vow,  giving  him  his  father's  money  for  his  mother's  wrongs, 
and  how  she  who  had  been  so  dear  to  him  had  drawn  him 
on  in  the  days  of  her  trouble,  and  cast  him  off  when  another  beck- 
oned to  her,  he  cried  in  his  tortured  heart:  "Oh,  God  in  heaven, 
give  me  this  man  into  my  hands." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE     SWORD     OF     ESAU 

JASON  went  back  to  his  lodging  by  the  Cathedral,  found  the  old 
caretaker  sitting  up  for  him,  made  some  excuse  for  returning  late, 
and  turned  in  to  bed.  His  room  was  the  guest-chamber — a  little, 
muggy,  stifling  box,  with  bed  and  bedding  of  eider  down  sewed 
into  canvas  sacks.  He  threw  off  his  boots  and  lay  down  in  his 
clothes.  Hour  followed  hour  and  he  did  not  sleep.  He  was  never- 
theless not  wholly  awake:  but  retained  a  sort  of  sluggish  con- 
sciousness which  his  dazed  brain  could  not  govern.  Twelve  had 
chimed  from  the  great  clock  of  the  turret  overhead  as  he  lay  down, 
and  he  heard  one,  two,  three,  and  four  follow  in  their  turn.  By  this 


THE   BONDMAN  161 

time  he  was  feeling  a  dull  pain  at  the  back  of  his  head,  and  a  heavy 
throbbing  in  his  neck.  Until  then  he  had  been  ever  a  man  of  great 
bodily  strength,  with  never  an  ache  or  ailment.  "I  am  making 
myself  ill  before  anything  is  done,"  he  thought,  "and  if  I  fall  sick 
nothing  can  come  of  my  enterprise.  That  must  not  be."  With  an 
effort  of  will  he  composed  himself  to  sleep.  Still  for  a  space  he 
saw  the  weary  night  wear  on;  but  the  lapse,  the  broken  thread, 
and  the  dazed  sense  stole  over  him  at  last,  and  he  dropped  into  a 
deep  slumber.  When  he  awoke  the  white  light  of  midday  was  com- 
ing in  strong  dancing  bars  through  the  rents  of  the  dark  blanket 
that  covered  the  little  window,  the  clock  of  the  Cathedral  was 
chiming  twelve  once  again,  and  over  the  little  cobble  causeway 
of  the  street  in  front  there  was  the  light  patter  of  many  sealskin 
shoes.  "How  could  I  sleep  away  my  time  like  this  with  so  much 
to  do  ?"  he  thought,  and  leaped  up  instantly. 

His  old  landlady  had  more  than  once  looked  in  upon  him  during 
the  morning,  and  watched  him  with  an  air  of  pity.  "Poor  lad, 
he  looks  ill,"  she  thought ;  and  so  left  him  to  sleep  on.  While  he 
ate  his  breakfast,  of  skyr  and  skate  and  coffee,  the  good  soul  busied 
herself  about  him,  asking  what  work  he  had  a  mind  to  do  now  that 
he  had  come  back,  and  where  he  meant  to  look  for  it,  with  other 
questions  of  a  like  kind.  But  he  answered  her  many  words  with 
few  of  his  own,  merely  saying  that  he  intended  to  look  about  him 
before  deciding  on  anything,  and  that  he  had  something  in  his 
pocket  to  go  on  with  in  the  meanwhile. 

Some  inquiries  he  made  of  her  in  his  turn,  and  they  were  mainly 
about  the  new  President,  or  Governor;  what  like  he  was  to  look 
upon,  and  what  his  movements  were,  and  if  he  was  much  seen  in  the 
town.  The  good  body  could  tell  him  very  little,  being  old,  very 
deaf,  and  feeble  on  her  feet,  and  going  about  hardly  at  all  farther 
than  the  floors  of  the  Cathedral  on  cleaning  days.  But  her  deaf 
old  husband,  hobbling  in  from  the  street  at  that  moment,  said  he 
had  heard  somebody  say  that  a  session  of  the  Althing  was  sitting 
then,  and  that  under  the  Republic  that  had  lately  been  proclaimed 
Michael  Sunlocks  presided  at  the  parliament-house  daily  about 
midday. 

Hearing  this,  Jason  rose  from  his  unfinished  breakfast,  and  went 
out  on  some  pretended  errand;  but  when  he  got  to  the  wooden 
shed  where  the  Althing  held  its  session  he  found  the  sitting  over 
and  the  delegates  dispersed.  His  only  object  had  been  to  see 
Michael  Sunlocks  that  he  might  know  him,  and  having  lost  his  first 
opportunity  he  returned  the  following  day,  coming  earlier,  before 
the  sitting  had  begun  or  the  delegates  had  yet  gathered.  But 


162  THE   BONDMAN 

though'  He  lounged  within  the  door-yard,  while  the  members  passed 
through,  jesting  and  laughing  together,  he  saw  no  one  young 
enough  to  answer  to  Michael  Sunlocks.  He  was  too  much  in  dread 
of  attracting  attention  to  inquire  of  the  few  idlers  who  looked  on 
like  himself,  so  he  went  away  and  came  yet  again  the  next  day 
after  and  waited  as  before.  Once  more  he  felt  that  the  man  he 
looked  for  had  not  passed  in  with  the  rest,  and,  between  fear  of  ex- 
citing suspicion  and  of  throwing  away  further  chances,  he  ques- 
tioned the  doorkeeper  of  the  Chamber.  This  person  stuttered  before 
every  word,  but  Jason  learned  at  length  that  Michael  Sunlocks  had 
not  been  there  for  a  week,  that  by  the  rule  of  the  new  Constitution 
the  Governor  presided  only  at  the  sittings  of  the  higher  house,  the 
Council,  and  that  the  present  sittings  were  those  of  the  lower  house, 
the  Senate. 

That  was  Thursday,  and  Jason  reflected  that  though  four  days 
were  gone  nothing  was  done.  Vexed  with  himself  for  the  caution 
that  had  wasted  so  much  time,  he  boldly  started  inquiries  on  many 
sides.  Then  he  learned  that  it  was  the  daily  practice  of  the  Gov- 
ernor to  go  at  twelve  o'clock  noon  to  the  embankment  in  front  of 
the  merchant  stores,  where  his  gangs  of  masons  were  throwing  up 
the  new  fort.  At  that  hour  that  day  Jason  was  there,  but  found 
that  the  Governor  had  already  been  and  gone.  Going  earlier  the 
next  day,  Friday,  he  learned  that  the  Governor  had  not  yet  come, 
and  so  he  lay  about  to  wait  for  him.  But  the  men  whom  he  had  ques- 
tioned began  to  cast  curious  glances  in  his  direction,  and  to  mutter 
together  in  groups.  Then  he  remembered  that  it  was  a  time  of 
revolution,  that  he  might  be  mistaken  for  a  Danish  spy,  and  as  such 
be  forthwith  seized  and  imprisoned.  "That  would  stop  everything," 
he  thought,  and  moved  away. 

In  a  tavern  of  a  by-street,  a  long  lean  youth,  threadbare  and 
tipsy,  formerly  a  student  and  latterly  expelled  from  the  college  for 
drunkenness,  told  him  that  the  new  Governor  turned  in  at  the 
Latin  school  every  evening  at  dusk,  to  inspect  the  drill  of  the  regi- 
ment he  had  enrolled.  So  to  the  Latin  school  at  dusk  Jason  made 
his  way,  but  the  place  was  dark  and  silent  when  he  came  upon  it, 
and  from  a  lad  who  was  running  out  at  the  moment  he  heard  that 
the  drill-sergeant  had  fallen  ill,  and  the  drill  been  discontinued. 

On  the  wharf  by  the  jetty  the  boatman  who  had  recognized  him 
on  landing,  old  Jon  Olafsson,  told  him  that  serving  whiting  and 
skate  to  the  Bishop's  Palace  he  found  that  the  new  Governor  was 
ever  coming  and  going  there.  Now  of  all  houses  Jason  had  most 
avoided  that  house,  lest  he  should  be  seen  of  those  eyes  that  would 
surely  read  his  mission  at  a  glance.  Yet  as  night  fell  in,  and  he 


THE   BONDMAN  163 

might  approach  the  place  with  safety,  he  haunted  the  ways  that 
led  to  it.  But  never  again  did  he  see  Michael  Sunlocks  even  in  the 
uncertain  darkness,  and  thinking  how  hard  it  was  to  set  eyes  on 
this  man,  whom  he  must  know  of  a  surety  before  ever  his  enter- 
prise could  be  ripe,  a  secret  dread  took  hold  of  him,  and  he  all 
but  renounced  his  design.  "Why  is  it  that  I  can  not  see  him?" 
he  thought.  "Why,  of  all  men  in  the  town,  is  he  the  only  one 
whom  I  can  never  meet  face  to  face?  Why,  of  all  men  here,  am 
I  the  only  one  whom  he  has  never  seen?"  It  was  as  if  higher 
powers  were  keeping  them  apart. 

By  this  time  he  realized  that  he  was  being  observed,  for  in  the 
dusk,  on  the  Thingvellir  road,  that  led  past  Government  House, 
three  men  overtook  him,  and  went  on  to  talk  with  easy  confidence 
in  signs  and  broken  words.  He  saw  that  they  were  Danes ;  that  one 
was  old  and  white-headed;  another  was  young,  sallow,  and  of  a 
bitter  spirit;  and  the  third,  who  was  elderly,  was  of  a  meek  and 
quiet  manner. 

"How  are  they  going  on  in  the  old  country?  Anything  done 
yet?  When  are  they  coming?"  said  the  young  man. 

"Ah,  don't  be  afraid,"  said  the  old  man.  "We  know  you  are 
watching  him,"  he  added,  with  a  side-long  motion  of  the  head 
toward  Government  House.  "But  he  will  send  no  more  of  our 
sons  and  brothers  to  the  sulphur  mines,  to  slave  like  beasts  of 
burden.  His  days  are  numbered." 

Then  the  young  man  laughed  bitterly. 

"They  say  he  is  to  be  married.  Let  him  make  merry  while  he 
may,"  he  said  with  a  deep  oath. 

And  at  that  Jason  faced  about  to  them. 

"You  have  been  mistaken,  sirs,"  he  said.  "I  am  not  a  spy,  and 
neither  am  I  an  assassin." 

He  walked  away  with  what  composure  he  could  command,  but 
he  trembled  like  a  leaf,  for  by  this  encounter  three  new  thoughts 
possessed  him;  first,  that  when  his  attempt  had  been  made  and  his 
work  done,  he,  who  believed  himself  appointed  by  God  as  the  in- 
strument of  His  righteous  retribution,  would  stand  no  otherwise 
before  man  than  as  a  common  midnight  murderer ;  next,  that  unless 
he  made  haste  with  his  design  he  would  be  forestalled  by  others 
with  baser  motives;  and,  again,  that  if  his  bearing  had  so  nearly 
revealed  his  purpose  to  the  Danes  it  might  suggest  it  to  others 
with  more  interest  in  defeating  it. 

In  his  former  rashness  he  had  gone  everywhere,  even  where  the 
throngs  were  thickest,  and  talked  with  every  one,  even  the  six  stal- 
wart constables  who  had  taken  the  place  of  the  rheumatic  watch- 


164  THE   BONDMAN 

man  whom  he  knew  in  earlier  days  But  from  the  hour  of  that 
meeting  with  the  Danes  he  found  himself  going  about  as  stealthily 
as  a  cat,  watching  everybody,  thinking  everybody  was  watching 
him,  shrinking  from  every  sight,  and  quaking  at  every  sound. 
"They  can  do  what  they  like  with  me  after  it  is  over,"  he  thought, 
"but  first  let  it  be  done." 

He  felt  afraid,  who  had  never  before  known  the  taste  of  fear; 
he  felt  weary,  who  had  never  until  then  known  what  it  was 
to  be  tired.  "Oh,  what  is  this  that  is  coming  over  me  ?"  he 
thought.  "If  I  am  doing  well,  why  do  I  tremble  ?"  For  even  while 
he  planned  his  daring  attempt  a  great  feebleness  seemed  to  be 
in  all  his  members. 

Thus  it  chanced  that  on  the  next  day  thereafter,  Saturday,  he 
saw  many  busy  preparations  along  the  line  of  the  High  Street  and 
its  byways,  such  as  the  swinging  of  pulley  ropes  from  house 
front  to  house  front  and  the  shaking  out  of  bunting,  without  asking 
what  festival  they  purported.  But  returning  to  his  lodging  in  the 
evening  he  found  his  landlady  busy  with  preparations  of  a  like 
kind  about  the  entrance  to  the  yard  of  the  Cathedral,  and  then  he 
knew  too  well  what  new  thing  was  coming.  All  the  same  he  asked, 
and  his  landlady  answered  him: 

"Lord  bless  me,"  she  cried,  "and  haven't  you  heard  that  the 
young  Governor  is  to  be  wedded?" 

"When?"  said  Jason. 

"To-morrow,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"Where?" 

"Why,  in  the  Cathedral,  surely.  It  will  be  a  bonny  sight,  I 
promise  you.  You  would  like  to  see  it,  I  make  no  doubt.  Well, 
and  so  you  shall,  my  son.  I'll  get  you  in.  Only  leave  it  to  me. 
Only  leave  it  to  me." 

Jason  had  expected  this  answer ;  like  a  horse  that  quivers  under 
the  lash,  while  it  is  yet  hissing  over  his  head,  he  had  seen  the  blow 
coming,  yet  when  it  came  it  startled  and  stunned  him.  He  got 
up,  touching  no  food,  and  staggered  back  into  the  street. 

It  was  now  dark  night.  The  stores  were  lit  up  by  their  open 
lamps,  whose  noisome  smoke  streamed  out  over  the  pathway,  and 
mingled  with  the  foul  vapors  that  came  from  the  drinking  shops. 
The  little  town  was  very  busy;  throngs  of  people  passed -to  and 
fro,  and  there  was  much  shouting  and  noisy  laughter. 

To  Jason  all  this  was  a  mass  of  confusion,  like  a  dream  that  is 
vague  and  broken  and  has  no  semblance  of  reality.  His  knees 
smote  together  as  he  walked,  and  his  mind  was  clogged  and 
numbed.  At  length  he  was  conscious  that  some  brawlers  who 


THE   BONDMAN  165 

were  lounging  at  the  door  of  a  tavern  were  jeering  as  he  went  by 
them,  and  that  a  woman  who  was  passing  at  the  same  moment  was 
rating  them  roundly. 

"Can't  you  see  he's  ill?"  she  was  saying,  and  they  were  laugh- 
ing lustily. 

He  turned  toward  the  sea,  and  there,  with  only  the  black  beach 
before  his  eyes  and  the  monotonous  beat  of  the  waves  in  his  ears, 
his  faculties  grew  clearer.  "Oh  God !"  he  thought,  "am  I  to  strike 
him  down  before  her  face  and  at  the  very  foot  of  the  altar  ?  It  is 
terrible.  It  must  be  true  that  I  am  ill — or  perhaps  mad — or  both." 

But  he  wrestled  with  his  irresolute  spirit  and  overcame  it.  One 
by  one  he  marshaled  his  reasons  and  bit  by  bit  he  justified  himself. 
When  his  anger  wavered  against  the  man  who  had  twice  sup- 
planted him,  he  recalled  his  vow  to  execute  judgment,  and  when 
his  vow  seemed  horrible  he  remembered  that  Greeba  herself  had 
wronged  him. 

Thus  he  had  juggled  with  himself  night  after  night,  and  if 
morning  after  morning  peace  had  come  with  the  coming  of  light, 
it  was  gone  forever  now.  He  rehearsed  everything  in  his  mind 
and  saw  it  all  as  he  meant  it  to  be.  To-morrow  while  the  bells 
were  ringing  he  would  go  into  the  Cathedral.  His  old  landlady, 
the  caretaker,  would  put  him  in  the  front  seat  before  the  altar- 
rail.  The  pews  would  already  be  thronged,  and  there  would  be 
whispering  behind  him,  and  little  light  fits  of  suppressed  laughter. 
Presently  the  old  Bishop  would  come,  halting  along  in  his  surplice, 
holding  the  big  book  in  his  trembling  hands.  Then  the  bridegroom 
would  step  forward,  and  he  should  see  him  and  mark  him  and 
know  him.  The  bride  herself  would  come  next  in  a  dazzling  cloud 
of  her  bridesmaids,  all  dressed  in  white.  Then  as  the  two  stood 
together — he  and  she,  hand  in  hand,  glancing  softly  at  each  other, 
and  with  all  other  eyes  upon  them,  he  himself  would  rise  up — and 
do  it.  Suddenly  there  would  be  a  wild  cry,  and  she  would  turn 
toward  him,  and  see  him,  and  understand  him,  and  fall  fainting 
before  him.  Then  while  both  lay  at  his  feet  he  would  turn  to 
those  about  him  and  say,  very  calmly,  "Take  me.  It  was  I."  All 
being  done,  he  would  not  shrink,  and  when  his  time  came  he 
would  meet  his  fate  without  flinching,  and  in  the  awful  hereafter 
he  would  stand  before  the  white  throne  and  say:  "It  would  have 
been  an  evil  thing  if  God's  ways  had  not  been  justified  before  men : 
so  I  have  executed  on  earth  His  judgment  who  has  said  in  His  Holy 
Writ  that  the  wrongdoer  shall  surely  suffer  vengeance,  even  to  the 
third  and  fourth  generation  of  His  children." 

Thinking  so,  in  the  mad  tangle  of  his  poor,  disordered  brain, 


166  THE   BONDMAN 

yet  with  a  great  awe  upon  him  as  of  one  laden  with  a  mission  from 
on  high,  Jason  went  back  to  his  lodging,  threw  himself  down, 
without  undressing,  upon  the  bed,  and  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep. 

When  he  awoke  next  morning  the  bells  in  the  turret  overhead 
were  jangling  in  his  ears,  and  his  deaf  old  landlady  was  leaning 
over  him  and  calling  him: 

"Get  up,  love,  get  up:  it's  late,  love;  you'll  miss  it  all,  love; 
it's  time  to  go  in,  love,"  she  was  saying;  and  a  little  later  she  led 
him  by  a  side  door  into  the  Cathedral. 

He  took  a  seat  where  he  had  decided  to  take  it,  in  a  corner  of 
th'e  pew  before  the  altar-rail,  and  all  seemed  the  same  as  he  had 
pictured.  The  throngs  of  people  were  behind  him,  and  he  could 
hear  their  whispering  and  light  laughter  while  they  waited. 
There  was  the  door  at  which  the  venerable  Bishop  would  soon 
enter,  carrying  his  big  book,  and  there  was  the  path,  kept  free 
and  strewn  with  flowers,  down  which  the  bride  and  her  train  would 
pass  on  to  the  -red  form  before  him.  Ah !  the  flowers — blood  red 
and  purple — how  sweetly  they  trailed  over  altar-rail,  and  pulpit, 
and  the  tablet  of  the  ten  commandments!  Following  them  with 
his  eyes,  while  with  his  hands  he  fumbled  his  belt  for  that  which  he 
had  concluded  to  carry  there,  suddenly  he  was  smitten  with  an 
awful  dread.  One  line  of  the  printed  words  before  him  seemed 
to  come  floating  through  the  air  down  to  his  face  in  a  vapor  of 
the  same  blood-red. 

Thou  shalt  do  no  murder! 

Jason  started  to  his  feet.  Why  was  he  there?  What  had  he 
come  to  do  ?  He  must  go.  The  place  was  stifling  him.  In  another 
moment  he  was  crushing  his  way  out  of  the  Cathedral.  He  felt 
like  a  man  sentenced  to  death. 

Being  in  the  free  air  again  he  regained  his  self-control.  "What 
madness !  It  is  no  murder,"  he  thought.  But  he  could  not  get 
back  to  his  seat,  and  so  he  turned  to  where  the  crowd  was  thickest 
outside.  That  was  down  the  line  of  the  pathway  to  the  wide  west 
entrance.  As  he  approached  this  point  he  saw  that  the  people 
were  in  high  commotion.  He  hurried  up  to  them  and  inquired  the 
cause.  The  bridal  party  had  just  passed  through.  At -that  moment 
the  full  swell  of  the  organ  came  out  through  the  open  doors.  The 
marriage  service  had  begun. 

After  a  while  Jason  had  so  far  recovered  his  composure  as  to 
look  about  him.  Deep  as  the  year  had  sunk  toward  winter,  the 
day  was  brilliant.  The  air  was  so  bright  that  it  seemed  to  ring. 
The  sea  in  front  of  the  town  smiled  under  the  sunlight ;  the  broad 
stretch  of  lava  behind  it  glistened,  the  glaciers  in  the  distance 


THE   BONDMAN  167 

sparkled,  and  the  black  jokulls  far  beyond  showed  their  snowy 
domes  against  the  blue  sky.  Oh,  it  was  one  of  God's  own  morn- 
ings, when  all  His  earth  looks  glad.  And  the  Cathedral  yard — 
for  all  it  slept  so  ftfll  of  dead  men's  bones — was  that  day  a  bright 
and  busy  place.  Troops  of  happy  girls  were  there  in  their  jackets 
of  gray,  braided  with  gold  or  silver,  and  with  belts  of  filigree; 
troops  of  young  men,  too,  in  their  knee  breeches,  with  bows  of  red 
ribbon,  their  dark-gray  stockings  and  sealskin  shoes;  old  men  as 
well  in  their  coats  of  homespun ;  and  old  women  in  their  long  blue 
cloaks;  children  in  their  plaited  kirtles,  and  here  and  there  a 
traveler  with  his  leather  wallet  for  his  snuff  and  money.  At  the 
entrance  gate  there  was  a  triumphal  arch  of  ribbons  and  ever- 
greens, and  under  its  shadow  there  were  six  men  with  horns  and 
guns,  ready  for  a  salute  when  the  bride  appeared ;  and  in  the  street 
outside  there  was  a  stall  laden  with  food  and  drink  for  all  who 
should  that  day  come  and  ask. 

Only  to  Jason  was  the  happy  place  a  Gethsemane,  and  standing 
in  the  thick  of  the  crowd,  on  a  grave  with  a  sunken  roof,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Cathedral,  he  listened  with  a  dull  ear  to  the  buzz 
of  talk  between  two  old  gossips  behind  him.  He  noticed  that  they 
were  women  with  prominent  eyeballs,  which  produced  a  dreamy, 
serious,  half-stupid,  half-humorous  look,  like  that  of  the  dogs  in  the 
picture  that  sit  in  the  judgment-seat. 

"She's  English,"  said  one.  "No,  Irish.  No,  Manx — whatever 
that  means.  Any  way,  she's  foreign,  and  can't  speak  a  word 
that  any  body  can  understand.  So  Mother  Helda  says,  and 
she's  a  worthy  woman,  you  know,  and  cleans  the  floors  at  the 
Palace." 

"But  they  say  she's  a  sweet  lady  for  all  that,"  said  the  other; 
and  just  then  a  young  student  at  their  back  pushed  his  laughing 
face  between  their  shoulders  and  said : 

"Who?     Qld  Mother  Helda?" 

"Mother  Helda  be  bothered.  The  lady.  And  her  father  has 
been  wrecked  in  coming  to  her  wedding,  too !  Poor  old  man,  what 
a  pity !  The  Governor  sent  my  son  Oscar  with  twenty  of  Loega's 
men  to  Stappen  to  look  for  him.  That  was  a  fortnight  ago.  I 
expect  him  back  soon." 

"They  might  have  waited  until  he  came.     Why  didn't  they?" 

"Oscar?"  said  the  laughing  face  between  them. 

"The  father,  goose.  Poor  lady,  how  lonely  she  must  feel !  But 
then  the  old  Bishop  is  so  good  to  everybody." 

"Well,  he  deserves  a  good  wife." 

"The  Old  Bishop?"  said  the  student,  shaking  his  sides. 


168  THE   BONDMAN 

"The  young  Governor,  I'm  talking  of;  and  don't  be  so  quick 
in  snapping  folks  up,  Jon  Arnason.  He's  the  best  Governor  we 
ever  had.  And  what  a  change  from  the  last  one.  Why,  he  doesn't 
mind  speaking  to  any  one.  Just  think,  only  yesterday  he  stopped 
me  and  said,  'Good-morning' ;  he  said,  'your  son  won't  be  long 
away  now,'  quite  humble  and  homelike." 

"Well,  God  bless  him — and  her  too,  foreign  or  not — and  may 
they  live  long — " 

"And  have  a  good  dozen,"  added  the  laughing  voice  behind 
them. 

And  then  all  three  laughed  together. 

By  this  time  the  organ  which  had  been  silent  for  a  little  while, 
had  burst  afresh,  and  though  its  strains  were  loud  and  jubilant, 
yet  to  Jason  they  seemed  to  tell  the  story  of  his  sorrow  and  all 
the  troubles  of  his  days.  He  tried  not  to  listen,  and  to  pass  the  mo- 
ments in  idly  watching  the  swaying  throng,  whose  heads  beneath 
his  own  rose  and  fell  like  a  broken  sea.  But  his  mind  would  be 
active,  and  the  broad  swell  of  the  music  floated  into  his  soul  and 
consumed  it.  "Can  it  be  possible,"  he  thought,  "that  I  intend  to 
smite  him  down  when  he  comes  through  that  doorway  by  her  side  ? 
And  yet  I  love  her — and  he  is  my  brother." 

Still  the  organ  rang  out  over  graveyard  and  people,  and  only 
by  an  effort  of  will  could  Jason  hold  back  his  tears.  "Man  !  man !" 
he  cried  in  his  heart,  "call  it  by  its  true  name — not  judgment,  but 
murder.  Yes,  murder  for  jealous  love,  murder  for  love  despised!" 

A  new  and  awful  light  had  then  illumined  his  gloomy  mind,  and 
his  face  betokened  his  sufferings,  for,  though  no  tears  fell  down 
his  hard  cheeks,  his  eyes  were  bloodshot.  In  complete  self-forget- 
fulness  he  pressed  forward,  until  his  way  was  stopped  by  a  little 
iron  cross  that  stood  at  the  head  of  a  grave.  "My  mother's,"  he 
thought.  "No,  hers  is  next." 

The  organ  broke  into  yet  another  strain  at  that  moment — a 
proud,  triumphant  peal  of  song,  which  in  the  frenzy  of  Jason's 
mind  seemed  either  to  reach  up  to  heaven's  gate  or  to  go  down  to 
the  brink  of  hell.  There  was  a  movement  among  the  people,  a  buzz 
of  voices,  a  hush,  and  a  whispered  cry,  "They  are  coming,  they 
are  coming !" 

"God  bless  them,"  said  one. 

"Heaven  protect  them,"  said  another. 

And  every  blessing  fell  on  Jason  like  a  curse.  "Murder  let 
it  be,"  he  thought,  and  turned  his  eyes  where  other  eyes  were  look- 
ing. Then  passing  under  the  broad  arch,  stepping  out  of  the 
blue  shadow  into  the  white  sunshine,  all  radiant  in  her  grace  and 


THE   BONDMAN  169 

lovely  sweetness,  meek  and  tender,  with  tears  in  her  soft  brown 
eyes — it  was  she,  it  was  she ;  it  was  Greeha — Greeba — Greeba. 

Jason  felt  his  strength  exhausted.  A  strange  dizziness  seized 
him.  He  looked  down  to  avoid  the  light.  His  eyes  fell  on  the 
iron  cross  before  him,  and  he  read  the  name  graven  upon  it.  The 
name  was  his  own. 

Then  everything  seemed  to  whirl  around  him.  He  remembered 
no  more,  save  a  shuffling  of  feet,  a  dull  hum  over  his  head,  like 
the  noise  of  water  in  the  ears  of  a  drowning  man,  and  a  sense  of 
being  lifted  and  carried. 

But  another  consciousness  came  to  him,  and  it  was  very  sweet, 
though  uncertain.  He  was  floating  up — up — up  to  where  the  moun- 
tains were  green,  and  the  sea  was  tranquil,  and  the  trees  made 
music  in  the  quiet  air.  And  Greeba  was  there ;  she  was  laying  her 
cool  hand  on  his  hot  forehead,  and  he  was  looking  at  the  troubled 
heaving  of  her  round  bosom.  "Aren't  you  very  proud  of  your- 
self, Jason?"  she  was  whispering  softly,  and  then  he  was  clasping 
the  beautiful  girl  in  his  arms  and  kissing  her,  and  she  was  spring- 
ing away,  blushing  deeply,  and  he  was  holding  down  his  head,  and 
laughing  in  his  heart. 

"Lie  still,  love;  lie  you  still,"  fell  on  his  ear,  and  he  opened 
his  eyes.  He  was  in  his  own  room  at  the  little  cottage  of  the  care- 
taker. The  old  woman  was  bending  over  him,  and  bathing  his 
forehead  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  hand  she  was  hold- 
ing her  apron  to  her  eyes. 

"He's  coming  round  nicely,  praise  the  Lord,"  she  said,  cheerily. 

"I  remember,"  said  Jason,  in  a  weak  voice.    "Did  I  faint?" 

"Faint,  love?"  said  the  good  soul,  putting  her  deaf  ear  close  to 
his  lips.  "Why,  it's  fever,  love;  brain  fever." 

"What  time  is  it?"  said  Jason. 

"Time,  love?  Lord  help  us,  what  does  the  boy  want  with  the 
time?  But  it's  just  the  way  with  all  of  them.  Mid-evening,  love." 

"What  day  is  it— Sunday?" 

"Sunday,  love  ?  No,  but  Tuesday.  It  was  on  Sunday  you  fell 
senseless,  poor  boy." 

"Where  was  that?" 

"Where?  Why,  where  but  in  the  Cathedral  yard,  just  at  the 
very  minute  the  weddiners  were  coming  out  at  the  door." 

And  hearing  this  Jason's  face  broke  into  a  smile  like  sunshine, 
and  he  uttered  a  loud  cry  of  relief:  "Thank  God.  Oh,  thank 
God." 

But  while  an  angel  of  hope  seemed  to  bring  him  good  tidings 
of  a  great  peril  averted,  and  even  as  a  prayer  gushed  from  his  torn 
8  Yol.  II. 


170  THE   BONDMAN 

heart,  he  remembered  the  vision  of  his  delirium,  and  knew  that  he 
was  forever  a  bereaved  and  broken  man.  At  that  his  face,  which 
had  been  red  as  his  hair,  grew  pale  as  ashes,  and  a  low  cunning 
came  over  him,  and  he  wondered  if  he  had  betrayed  himself  in  his 
unconsciousness. 

"Have  I  been  delirious?"  he  asked. 

"Delirious,  love?  Oh,  no,  love;  no;  only  distraught  a  little 
and  cursing  sometimes,  the  saints  preserve  us,"  said  the  old  land- 
lady in  her  shrill  treble. 

Jason  remembered  that  the  old  woman  was  deaf,  and  gathering 
that  she  alone  had  nursed  him,  and  that  no  one  else  had  seen  him 
since  his  attack,  except  her  deaf  husband  and  a  druggist  from  the 
High  Street  who  had  bled  him,  he  smiled  and  was  satisfied. 

"Lord  bless  me,  how  he  mends,"  said  the  hearty  old  woman, 
and  she  gave  him  the  look  of  an  affectionate  dog. 

"And  now,  good  soul,  I  am  hungry  and  must  make  up  for  all 
this  fasting,"  said  Jason. 

"Ay,  ay,  and  that  you  must,  lad,"  said  the  old  woman,  and  off 
she  went  to  cook  him  something  to  eat. 

But  his  talk  of  hunger  had  been  no  more  than  a  device  to  get 
rid  of  her,  for  he  knew  that  the  kind  creature  would  try  to  restrain 
him  from  rising.  So  when  she  was  gone  he  stumbled  to  his  feet, 
feeling  very  weak  and  dazed,  and  with  infinite  struggle  and  sweat 
tugged  on  his  clothes — for  they  had  been  taken  off — and  staggered 
out  into  the  streets. 

It  was  night,  and  the  clouds  hung  low  as  if  snow  might  be 
coming,  but  the  town  seemed  very  light,  as  with  bonfires  round 
about  it  and  rockets  shot  into  the  air,  and  very  noisy,  too,  as  with 
guns  fired  and  music  played,  so  that  Jason's  watery  eyes  felt  daz- 
zled, and  his  singing  ears  were  stunned.  But  he  walked  on,  hardly 
knowing  which  way  he  was  going,  and  hearing  only  as  sounds  at 
sea  the  voices  that  called  to  him  from  the  doors  of  the  drinking- 
shops,  until  he  came  out  at  the  bridge  to  the  Thingvellir  road. 
And  there,  in  the  sombre  darkness,  he  was  overtaken  by  the  three 
Danes  who  had  spoken  to  him  before. 

"So  your  courage  failed  you  at  the  last  moment — I  watched 
you  and  saw  how  it  was.  Ah,  don't  be  afraid,  we  are  your  friends, 
and  you  are  one  of  us.  Let  us  play  at  hide-and-seek  no  longer." 

"They  say  he  is  going  down  the  fiord  in  search  of  his  wife's 
father.  Take  care  he  does  not  slip  away.  Old  Jorgen  is  coming 
back.  Good-night." 

So  saying,  without  once  turning  their  faces,  toward  Jason's 
face,  they  strode  past  him  with  an  indifferent  air.  Then  Jason 


THE   BONDMAN  171 

became  conscious  that  Government  House  was  ablaze  with  lights, 
that  some  of  its  windows  were  half  down,  that  sounds  of  music  and 
dancing  came  from  within,  and  that  on  the  grass  plot  in  front 
which  was  lit  by  torches  men  and  women  in  gay  costumes  were 
strolling  to  and  fro,  in  pairs. 

And  turning  from  the  bridge  toward  the  house  he  saw  a  man 
go  by  on  horseback  in  the  direction  of  the  sea,  and  remembered  in 
a  dull  way  that  just  there  and  at  that  hour  he  had  seen  Michael 
Sunlocks  ride  past  him  in  the  dusk. 

What  happened  thereafter  he  never  rightly  knew,  only  that  in 
a  distempered  dream  he  was  standing  with  others  outside  the  rails 
about  Government  House  while  the  snow  began  to  fall  through  the 
darkness,  that  he  saw  the  dancers  circling  across  the  lighted  win- 
dows and  heard  the  music  of  the  flutes  and  violins  above  the  steady 
chime  of  the  sea,  that  he  knew  this  merry-making  to  be  a  festival 
of  her  marriage  whom  he  loved  with  a  love  beyond  that  of  his  im- 
mortal soul,  that  the  shame  of  his  condition  pained  him,  and  the 
pain  of  it  maddened  him,  the  madness  of  it  swept  away  his  con- 
sciousness, and  that  when  he  came  to  himself  he  had  forced  his 
way  into  the  house,  thinking  to  meet  his  enemy  face  to  face,  and 
was  in  a  room  alone  with  Greeba,  who  was  cowering  before  him 
with  a  white  face  of  dismay. 

"Jason,"  she  was  saying,  "why  are  you  here?" 

"Why  are  you  here  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why  have  you  followed  me?"  she  cried. 

"Why  have  you  followed  him?" 

"What  have  you  come  for?" 

"Is  this  what  you  have  come  for?" 

"Jason,"  she  cried  again,  "I  wronged  you,  that  is  true;  but  you 
forgave  me.  I  asked  you  to  choose  for  me,  and  if  you  had  said 
'stay/  I  should  have  stayed.  But  you  released  me,  you  know  you 
did.  You  gave  me  up  to  him  and  now  he  is  my  husband." 

"But  this  man  is  Michael  Sunlocks,"  said  Jason. 

"Didn't  you  know  that  before?"  said  Greeba.  Ah,  then,  I 
know  what  you  have  come  for.  You  have  recalled  your  forgive- 
ness, and  have  come  to  punish  me  for  deserting  you.  But  spare 
me !  Oh,  spare  me !  Not  for  my  own  sake,  but  his ;  for  I  am  his 
wife  now  and  he  loves  me  very  dearly.  No,  no,  not  that,  but  only 
spare  me.  Jason,"  she  cried,  and  crouched  at  his  feet. 

"I  would  not  harm  a  hair  of  your  head,  Greeba,"  he  said. 

"Then  what  have  you  come  for?"  she  said. 

"This  rrran  is  a  son  of  Stephen  Orry,"  he  said. 

"Then  it  is  for  him,"  she  cried,  and  leaped  to  her  feet.    "Ah, 


i;2  THE   BONDMAN 

now  I  understand.  I  have  not  forgotten  the  night  in  Port-y- 
Vullin." 

"Does  he  know  of  that?"  said  Jason. 

"No." 

"Does  he  know  I  am  here?" 

"No." 

"Does  he  know  we  have  met?" 

"No." 

"Let  me  see  him !" 

"Why  do  you  ask  to  see  him?" 

"Let  me  see  him !" 

"But  why,"  she  stammered.  "Why  see  him?  It  is  I  who  have 
wronged  you." 

"That's  why  I  want  to  see  him,"  said  Jason. 

She  uttered  a  cry  of  terror  and  staggered  back.  There  was  an 
ominous  silence,  in  which  it  passed  through  Greeba's  mind  that  all 
that  was  happening  then  had  happened  before.  She  could  hear 
Jason's  labored  breathing  and  the  dull  thud  of  the  music  through 
the  walls. 

"Jason,"  she  cried,  "What  harm  has  he  ever  done  you?  I  alone 
am  guilty  before  you.  If  your  vengeance  must  fall  on  any  one  let 
it  fall  on  me." 

"Where  is  he?"  said  Jason. 

"He  is  gone,"  said  Greeba. 

"Gone?" 

"Yes,  to  find  my  poor  father.  The  dear  old  man  was  wrecked 
in  coming  here,  and  my  husband  sent  men  to  find  them,  but  they 
blundered  and  came  back  empty-handed,  and  not  a  half  an  hour 
ago  he  went  off  himself." 

"Was  he  riding  ?"  said  Jason ;  but  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer he  made  toward  the  door. 

"Wait !    Where  are  you  going  ?"  cried  Greeba. 

Swift  as  lightning  the  thought  had  flashed  through  her  mind, 
"What  if  he  should  follow  him !" 

Now  the  door  to  the  room  was  a  heavy,  double-hung  door  of 
antique  build,  and  at  the  next  instant  she  had  leaped  to  it  and  shot 
the  heavy  wooden  bar  that  bolted  it. 

At  that  he  laid  one  powerful  hand  on  the  bar  itself,  and 
wrenched  it  outward  across  the  leverage  of  its  iron  loops,  and  it 
cracked  and  broke,  and  fell  to  the  ground  in  splinters. 

Then  her  strong  excitement  lent  the  brave  girl  strength,  and 
her  fear  for  her  husband  gave  her  courage,  and  crying,  "Stop,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  stop,"  she  put  her  back  to  the  door,  tore  up  the 


THE   BONDMAN  173 

sleeve  of  her  dress,  and  thrust  her  bare  right  arm  through  the  loops 
where  the  bar  had  been. 

"Now,"  she  cried,  "you  must  break  my  arm  after  it." 

"God  forbid,"  said  Jason,  and  he  fell  back  for  a  moment  at 
that  sight.  But,  recovering  himself,  he  said,  "Greeba,  I  would  not 
touch  your  beautiful  arm  to  hurt  it;  no,  not  for  all  the  wealth  of 
the  world.  But  I  must  go,  so  let  me  pass." 

Still  her  terror  was  centred  on  the  thought  of  Jason's  vengeance. 

"Jason,"  she  cried,  "he  .  is  my  husband.  Only  think — my 
husband." 

"Let  me  pass,"  said  Jason. 

"Jason,"  she  cried  again,  "my  husband  is  everything  to  me, 
and  I  am  all  in  all  to  him." 

"Let  me  pass,"  said  Jason. 

"You  intend  to  follow  him.    You  are  seeking  him  to  kill  him." 

"Let  me  pass." 

"Deny  it." 

"Let  me  pass." 

"Never,"  she  cried.  "Kill  we  if  you  will,  but  until  you  have 
done  so  you  shall  not  pass  this  door.  Kill  me!" 

"Not  for  my  soul's  salvation !"  said  Jason. 

"Then  give  up  your  wicked  purpose.    Give  it  up,  give  it  up." 

"Only  when  he  shall  have  given  up  his  life." 

"Then  I  warn  you,  I  will  show  you  no  pity,  for  you  have  shown 
none  to  me." 

At  that  she  screamed  for  help,  and  presently  the  faint  music 
ceased,  and  there  was  a  noise  of  hurrying  feet.  Jason  stood  a 
moment  listening;  then  he  looked  toward  the  window,  and  saw  that 
it  was  of  one  frame,  and  had  no  sash  that  opened.  At  the  next 
instant  he  had  doubled  his  arms  across  his  face  and  dashed  through 
glass  and  bars. 

A  minute  afterwards  the  room  was  full  of  men  and  women, 
and  Jason  was  brought  back  into  it,  pale,  sprinkled  with  snow 
and  blood-stained. 

"I  charge  that  man  with  threatening  the  life  of  my  husband." 
Greeba  cried. 

Then  it  seemed  as  if  twenty  strong  hands  laid  hold  of  Jason 
at  once.  But  no  force  was  needed,  for  he  stood  quiet  and  silent, 
and  looked  like  a  man  who  had  walked  in  his  sleep,  and  been  sud- 
denly awakened  by  the  sound  of  Greeba's  voice.  One  glance  he 
gave  her  of  great  suffering  and  proud  defiance,  and  then,  guarded 
on  either  hand,  passed  out  of  the  place  like  a  captured  lion. 


i74  THE   BONDMAN 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE    PEACE    OATH 

THERE  was  short  shrift  for  Red  Jason.  He  was  tried  by  the 
court  nearest  the  spot,  and  that  was  the  criminal  court  over  which 
the  Bishop  in  his  civil  capacity  presided,  with  nine  of  his  neighbors 
on  the  bench  beside  him.  From  this  court  an  appeal  was  possible 
to  the  Court  of  the  Quarter,  and  again  from  the  Quarter  Court 
to  the  High  Court  of  the  Althing;  but  appeal  in  this  case  there 
was  none,  for  there  was  no  defense.  And  because  Icelandic  law  did 
not  allow  of  the  imprisonment  of  a  criminal  until  after  he  had 
been  sentenced,  an  inquest  was  called  forthwith,  lest  Jason  should 
escape  or  compass  the  crime  he  had  attempted.  So  the  Court 
of  Inquiry  sat  the  same  night  in  the  wooden  shed  that  served  both 
for  Senate  and  House  of  Justice. 

The  snow  was  now  falling  heavily,  and  the  hour  was  late,  but 
the  court-house  was  thronged.  It  was  a  little  place — a  plain  box, 
bare,  featureless,  and  chill,  with  walls,  roof,  and  seats  of  wood,  and 
floor  of  hard  earth.  Four  short  benches  were  raised,  step  above 
step,  against  the  farthest  side,  and  on  the  highest  of  these  the 
Bishop  sat,  with  three  of  his  colleagues  on  each  of  the  three  rows 
beneath  him.  The  prisoner  stood  on  a  broad  stool  to  the  right, 
and  the  witnesses  on  a  like  stool  to  the  left.  A  wooden  bar  crossed 
the  room  about  midway,  and  in  the  open  space  between  that  and 
the  door  the  spectators  were  crowded  together.  The  place  was 
lighted  by  candles,  and  some  were  fixed  to  the  walls,  others  were 
held  by  ushers  on  the  end  of  long  sticks,  and  a  few  were  hung 
to  the  roof  rafters  by  hemp  ropes  tied  about  their  middle.  The 
floor  ran  like  a  stream,  and  the  atmosphere  was  full  of  the  vapor 
of  the  snow  that  was  melting  on  the  people's  clothes.  Nothing 
could  be  ruder  than  the  court-house,  but  the  Court  that  sat  here  ob- 
served a  rule  of  procedure  that  was  almost  an  idolatry  of  form. 

The  prisoner  was  called  by  the  name  of  Jason,  son  of  Stephen 
Orry,  and  having  answered  in  a  voice  so  hollow  that  it  seemed  to 
come  out  of  the  earth  beneath  him,  he  rose  to  his  place.  His  atti- 
tude was  dull  and  impassive,  and  he  seemed  hardly  to  see  the  rest- 
less crowd  that  murmured  at  sight  of  him.  His  tall  figure  stooped, 
there  was  a  cloud  on  his  strong  brow,  and  a  slow  fire  in  his  blood- 


THE   BONDMAN  175 

shot  eyes,  and  his  red  hair,  long  as  a  woman's,  hung  in  disordered 
masses  down  his  worn  cheeks  to  his  shoulders.  The  Bishop,  a  ven- 
erable prelate  of  great  age,  looked  at  him  and  thought,  "That 
man's  heart  is  dead  within  him." 

The  spokesman  of  the  Court  was  a  middle-aged  man,  who  was 
short,  had  little  piercing  eyes,  a  square  brush  of  iron-gray  hair 
that  stood  erect  across  the  top  of  his  corded  forehead,  and  a  crisp, 
clear  utterance,  like  the  crackle  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  frost. 

Jason  was  charged  with  an  attempt  to  take  the  life  of  Michael 
Sunlocks,  first  President  of  the  second  Republic.  He  did  not  plead 
and  had  no  defense,  and  the  witnesses  against  him  spoke  only  in 
answer  to  the  leading  questions  of  the  judges. 

The  first  of  the  witnesses  was  Greeba  herself,  and  her  evidence, 
given  in  English,  was  required  to  be  interpreted.  All  her  brave 
strength  was  now  gone.  She  trembled  visibly.  Her  eyes  were 
down,  her  head  was  bent,  her  face  was  half-hidden  by  the  hood  of 
a  cloak  she  wore,  and  her  tones  were  barely  audible.  She  had 
little  to  say.  The  prisoner  had  forced  his  way  into  Government 
House,  and  there,  to  her  own  face,  had  threatened  to  take  the 
life  of  her  husband.  In  plain  words  he  had  done  so,  and  then  made 
show  of  going  in  pursuit  of  her  husband  that  he  might  carry  out 
his  design. 

"Wait,"  said  the  Bishop,  "your  husband  was  not  present?" 

"No,"  said  Greeba. 

"There  was,  therefore,  no  direct  violence?" 

"None." 

"And  the  whole  sum  of  the  prisoner's  offense,  so  far  as  you 
know  of  it,  lies  in  the  use  of  the  words  that  you  have  repeated?" 

"Yes." 

Then  turning  to  the  spokesman  of  the  Court,  the  old  Bishop 
said: 

"There  has  been  no  overt  act.  This  is  not  an  attempt,  but  a 
threat  to  take  life.  And  this  is  not  a  crime  by  the  law  of  this  or 
any  other  Christian  country." 

"Your  pardon,  my  lord,"  said  the  little  man,  in  his  crisp  tones. 
"I  will  show  that  the  prisoner  is  guilty  of  the  essential  part  of 
murder  itself.  Murder,  my  lord,"  he  added,  "is  not  merely  to  com- 
pass the  destruction  of  a  life,  for  there  is  homicide,  by  misadven- 
ture, there  is  justifiable  homicide,  and  there  are  the  rights,  long 
recognized  by  Icelandic  law,  of  the  avengers  of  blood.  Murder  is 
to  kill  in  secrecy  and  after  long-harbored  malice,  and  now,  my 
lord,  I  shall  show  that  the  prisoner  has  lain  in  wait  to  slay  the 
President  of  the  Republic." 


i?6  THE   BONDMAN 

At  that  Greeba  stood  down,  and  other  witnesses  followed  her. 
Nearly  every  one  had  been  summoned  with  whom  Jason  had  ex- 
changed words  since  he  landed  eight  days  before.  There  was  the  lean 
student  who  had  told  him  of  the  drill  at  the  Latin  school,  the  little 
tailor  who  had  explained  the  work  at  the  jail,  the  stuttering  door- 
keeper at  the  senate-house,  and  one  of  the  masons  at  the  fort. 
Much  was  made  of  the  fainting  in  the  Cathedral  yard,  on  the  Sun- 
day morning,  and  out  of  the  deaf  landlady,  the  Cathedral  caretaker, 
some  startling  disclosures  seemed  to  be  drawn. 

"Still,"  said  the  old  Bishop,  "I  see  no  overt  act." 

"Good  gracious,  my  lord,"  said  the  little  spokesman,  "are  we 
to  wait  until  the  knife  itself  has  been  reddened?" 

"God  forbid!"  said  the  old  Bishop. 

Then  came  two  witnesses  to  prove  motive.  The  first  of  them 
was  the  tipsy  comrade  of  former  days,  who  had  drawn  Jason  into 
the  drinking-shop.  He  could  say  of  his  own  knowledge  that  Jason 
was  jealous  of  the  new  Governor.  The  two  were  brothers  in  a  sort 
of  way.  So  people  said,  and  so  Jason  had  told  him.  They  had  the 
same  father,  but  different  mothers.  Jason's  mother  had  been  the 
daughter  of  the  old  Governor,  who  turned  his  back  on  her  at  her 
marriage.  At  her  death  he  relented,  and  tried  to  find  Jason,  but 
could  not,  and  then  took  up  with  Michael  Sunlocks.  People  said 
that  was  the  beginning  of  the  new  President's  fortune.  At  all 
events  Jason  thought  he  had  been  supplanted,  was  very  wroth,  and 
swore  he  would  be  revenged. 

The  second  of  the  two  witnesses  pointed  to  a  very  different 
motive.  He  was  one  of  the  three  Danes  who  had  twice  spoken  to 
Jason — the  elderly  man  with  the  meek  and  quiet  manner.  Though 
himself  loyal  to  the  Icelandic  Republic  he  had  been  much  thrown 
among  its  enemies.  Jason  was  one  of  them;  he  came  here  as  a 
spy  direct  from  Copenhagen,  and  his  constant  associates  were 
Thomsen,  an  old,  white-headed  man  living  in  the  High  Street,  and 
Polvesen,  a  young  and  sallow  man,  who  kept  one  of  the  stores  fac- 
ing the  sea.  With  these  two  Jason  had  been  heard  by  him  to 
plan  the  assassination  of  the  President. 

At  this  evidence  there  was  a  deep  murmur  among  the  people, 
and  it  was  seen  that  Greeba  had  risen  again  to  her  feet.  Her  heart 
burned  and  stormed  within  her.  She  tried  to  speak  but  could  not. 
At  he  same  moment  Jason  turned  his  bloodshot  eyes  in  her  direc- 
tion, and  then  her  limbs  gave  way  under  her,  and  she  sank  back  with 
a  moan.  The  Court  misread  her  emotion,  and  she  was  removed. 
Jason's  red  eyes  followed  her  constantly. 

"This  is  a  case  for  the  Warning,  not  for  punishment,"  said  the 


THE   BONDMAN  177 

Bishop.  "It  is  plainly  written  in  our  old  Law  Book  that  if  a  man 
threatens  to  slay  another  man  he  shall  be  warned  of  the  gravity 
of  the  crime  he  contemplates  and  of  the  penalty  attaching  to  it."  , 

"Gracious  heavens,  my  lord,"  cried  the  little  spokesman,  "what 
reason  have  we  to  assume  that  this  prisoner  is  ignorant  of  either? 
With  a  life  to  guard  that  is  prized  by  friends  and  precious  to  the 
State  shall  we  let  this  man  go  free  who  had  sworn  before  witnesses 
to  destroy  it?" 

"God  forefend !"  said  the  Bishop. 

It  was  lawful  to  question  the  prisoner,  and  so  he  was  questioned. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  have  been  lying  in  wait  to  kill  the  Presi- 
dent?" asked  the  spokesman. 

But  Jason  made  no  answer. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  have  done  so  from  a  desire  for  personal 
vengeance?" 

No  answer. 

"Or  from  political  motives?" 

No  answer. 

"Or  both?" 

Still  no  answer. 

Then  the  spokesman  turned  back  to  the  Court.  "The  stubborn 
persistence  of  the  prisoner  is  easy  to  understand,"  he  said,  and 
smiled. 

"Wait,"  said  the  old  Bishop,  and  he  turned  toward  Jason : 

"Have  you  any  valid  plea?" 

But  Jason  gave  no  sign. 

"Listen,"  said  the  Bishop.  "Though  the  man  who  compasses  the 
destruction  of  a  single  life  is  as  though  he  had  destroyed  a  world, 
for  the  posterity  of  him  who  is  dead  might  have  filled  a  world,  yet 
have  all  laws  of  men  since  the  Pentateuch  recognized  certain  con- 
ditions that  limit  the  gravity  of  the  crime.  If  the  man  who  is  slain 
has  himself  slain  the  near  kindred  of  his  slayer,  though  the  law 
of  Iceland  would  no  longer  hold  him  guiltless,  as  in  the  ancient 
times  when  evil  for  evil  was  the  rule  and  sentence,  neither  would 
it  punish  him  as  a  murderer,  who  must  eat  the  bread  and  drink  the 
water  of  misery  all  his  days.  Now  what  is  true  of  murder  must 
be  true  of  intent  to  murder,  and  though  I  am  loth  to  believe  it 
possible  in  this  instance,  honoring  and  loving  as  we  all  do  that  good 
man  whom  you  are  charged  with  lying  in  wait  to  kill,  yet  in  my 
duty  must  I  ask  you  a  question — Has  Michael  Sunlocks  spilled 
blood  of  your  blood,  and  is  it  as  a  redeemer  of  blood  that  you  go 
about  to  slay  him  ?" 

There  was  a  dead  hush  in  the  little  crowded  court-house  as 


i;8  THE   BONDMAN 

Jason  lifted  his  heavy,  bloodshot  eyes  to  the  Bishop's  face  and 
answered,  in  a  weary  voice,  "I  have  nothing  to  say." 
.  Then  an  aged  Lutheran  priest,  who  had  sat  within  the  rail,  with 
a  snuffbox  in  his  hand  and  a  red  print  handkerchief  across  his 
knee,  hobbled  up  to  the  witness  stool  and  tendered  evidence.  He 
could  throw  light  on  the  prisoner's  hatred  of  the  President,  if  it 
was  true  that  the  President  was  a  son  of  Stephen  Orry.  He  knew 
the  prisoner,  and  had  named  him  in  his  baptism.  He  had  known 
the  prisoner's  mother  also,  and  had  sat  with  her  at  her  death.  It 
was  quite  true  that  she  was  a  daughter  of  the  late  Governor,  and 
had  been  badly  treated  by  her  father.  But  she  had  been  yet  more 
badly  treated  by  her  husband,  who  married  again  while  she  was 
still  alive,  and  had  another  son  by  the  other  wife.  On  her  death- 
bed she  had  heard  of  this,  and  told  the  prisoner,  who  then  and  there, 
this  witness  being  present,  made  an  awful  vow  of  vengeance  upon 
his  father  and  his  father's  son. 

The  old  priest  was  heard  in  silence,  and  his  words  sent  a  quiver 
through  the  court-house.  Even  Jason,  who  had  shown  no  interest 
save  when  Greeba  was  removed,  lifted  up  his  bloodshot  eyes  again 
and  listened. 

And  the  Bishop,  visibly  moved,  turned  to  the  Court  and  said, 
"Let  us  put  this  prisoner  back  to  be  tried  by  the  High  Court  and 
the  Lagmann." 

"What,  my  lord!"  cried  the  little  spokesman,  with  a  lofty  look, 
"and  set  him  at  liberty  in  the  meantime  to  carry  out  the  crime 
he  threatens?" 

"Heaven  forbid !"  said  the  Bishop. 

"Remember,  until  he  has  been  condemned  we  have  no  power 
to  hold  him,"  said  the  spokesman. 

The  Bishop  turned  to  an  usher  and  said:  "Bring  me  the  Statute 
Book,"  and  the  great  tome  was  brought.  The  Bishop  opened  it 
and  again  turned  to  the  prisoner.  "The  Almighty,"  said  he, 
"created  one  man  at  the  beginning  to  teach  us  that  all  men  are 
brethren,  and  the  law  of  our  old  country  provides  that  when  two 
have  had  disputes  and  pursued  each  other  on  account  of  hatred, 
even  as  brethren  they  shall  make  peace  before  their  neighbors. 
Now  listen  to  the  words  I  shall  read  to  you,  and  be  ready  to  say  if 
you  will  swear  to  them." 

Then  a  great  silence  fell  upon  the  people,  while  in  solemn  tones 
the  old  Bishop  read  the  Peace  Oath. 

"Ye  two  shall  be  set  at  one  and  live  friendly  together,  at  meat 
and  at  drink,  in  the  Althing  and  at  meetings,  at  kirk  prayers  and 
in  King's  palace;  and  in  whatever  place  else  men  meet  together, 


THE   BONDMAN  179 

there  shall  ye  be  so  set  at  one,  as  if  this  quarrel  had  never  come 
between  you.  Ye  shall  share  knife  and  meat  together,  and  all 
things  besides,  as  friends  and  not  as  enemies." 

The  Bishop  paused  and  looked  over  his  spectacles  at  Jason,  who 
stood  as  before,  with  the  cloud  on  his  brow  and  the  slow  fire  in 
his  deep  eyes,  but  with  no  sign  of  feeling  or  interest. 

"Will  you  promise  to  swear  to  this,  when  he  shall  have  returned 
who  should  swear  to  it  with  you?"  said  the  Bishop. 

Then  all  eyes  turned  toward  Jason,  and  there  came  across  his 
face  at  that  moment  the  look  of  a  baited  dog. 

"No,"  he  growled. 

The  spokesman  shifted  in  his  seat  and  the  people  grew 
restless. 

"Listen  again,"  said  the  Bishop,  and  his  long  white  beard  shook 
and  his  solemn  voice  rose  to  a  shrill  cry  as  he  twisted  back  to  the 
book  and  read: 

"But  if  one  of  you  be  so  mad  that  he  breaks  this  truce  thus 
made,  and  slays  after  pledges  have  been  made  and  his  blade  has 
reddened,  he  shall  be  an  outlaw,  accursed  and  driven  away,  so  far 
as  men  drive  wolves  farthest  away.  He  shall  be  banished  of  God 
and  all  good  Christian  men,  as  far  as  Christian  men  seek  churches, 
as  mothers  bring  forth  sons,  son  calls  mother,  flames  blaze  up,  man- 
kind kindle  fire,  earth  is  green,  sun  shines,  and  snow  covers  the 
ground;  he  shall  flee  from  kirk  and  Christian  men,  God's  house 
and  mankind,  and  from  every  home  save  hell." 

Then  there  was  a  pause  and  a  great  hush,  and  the  Bishop  lifted 
his  eyes  from  the  book,  and  said : 

"Will  you  swear  to  it  ?" 

Again  all  eyes  turned  toward  Jason,  and  again  his  face,  which 
had  been  impassive,  took  the  look  of  a  baited  dog. 

"No,  no,  no !"  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  and  then  the  great  silence 
was  broken  by  deep  murmurs. 

"It  is  useless,"  said  the  spokesman.  "Warnings  or  peace 
oaths,  though  still  valid,  are  the  machinery  of  another  age.  This 
prisoner  is  not  ignorant  of  the  gravity  of  the  crime  he  contem- 
plates, nor  yet  of  the  penalty  attaching  to  it." 

There  was  an  audible  murmur  of  assent  from  the  people. 

"That's  true,"  said  one.  "It's  the  truest  word  spoken  to-night," 
said  another.  "The  old  man  is  all  for  mercy,"  said  a  third.  "It 
isn't  safe,"  said  a  fourth.  And  there  was  other  whispering,  and 
much  nodding  of  heads  and  shuffling  of  feet. 

Encouraged  by  these  comments  the  little  spokesman  added : 

"In  any  other  country  at  this  age  of  the  world  a  man  who  tacitly 


i8o  THE   BONDMAN 

admitted  a  design  to  take  life  would  be  promptly  clapped  into 
prison." 

"Ay,  ay,"  the  people  muttered,  but  the  Bishop  drew  himself  up 
and  said :  "In  any  other  country  a  criminal  who  showed  no  fear  of 
the  death  that  hung  over  him  would  be  straightway  consigned  to 
a  madhouse." 

"We  have  no  madhouse  in  this  island,  my  lord,"  said  the  little 
spokesman,  "save  the  Sulphur  Mines,  and  there  he  must  go." 

"Wait,"  said  the  Bishop,  and  once  again  he  turned  to  the  pris- 
oner. "If  this  Court  should  agree  to  ship  you  out  of  Iceland  will 
you  promise  never  more  to  return  to  it?" 

For  the  third  time  all  eyes  were  turned  on  Jason,  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  hear  the  Bishop's  question. 

"Will  you  promise?"  said  the  Bishop  again. 

"No,"  said  Jason. 

"Dangerous  trifling,"  said  the  spokesman.  "When  you  seize  a 
mad  dog  you  strangle  it." 

"Ay,  ay,"  cried  many  voices  at  once,  and  great  excitement 
prevailed. 

The  old  Bishop  drew  back  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  loved 
Michael  Sunlocks  and  had  been  eager  to  save  him.  He  pitied 
Greeba,  and  for  her  sake  also  had  been  anxious  to  protect  her 
husband.  But  from  the  moment  he  saw  Jason  and  thought,  "That 
man's  heart  is  dead  within  him,"  his  love  had  struggled  with  his 
sense  of  duty.  As  the  trial  went  on  he  had  remembered  Jason  and 
recalled  his  bitter  history,  and  seized  with  a  strong  sympathy  he 
had  strained  every  nerve  to  keep  back  his  punishment.  He  had 
done  all  he  could  do,  he  had  nothing  to  reproach  himself  with,  and 
full  of  a  deep  and  secret  joy  at  the  certainty  of  the  safety  of  Sun- 
locks,  he  now  fell  back  that  the  law  might  take  its  course. 

The  Court  was  counted  out,  and  then  the  Bishop  turned  for  the 
last  time  to  Jason,  and  delivered  judgment.  "The  sentence  of  this 
Court,"  he  said,  "is  that  you  be  removed  from  here  to  the  Sulphur 
Mines,  and  be  kept  there  six  months  certain,  and  as  long  thereafter 
as  you  refuse  to  take  the  Oath  of  Peace  pledging  yourself  forever, 
as  long  as  you  live  or  the  world  endures,  to  be  at  one  with  your 
enemy  as  brothers  before  all  men  living." 

Now  Greeba  alone  knew  the  truth  about  Jason.  When  she  had 
fled  from  Man  without  word  or  warning  it  had  not  been  out  of 
fear  of  him,  but  of  her  brothers.  Her  meeting  with  Michael  Sun- 
locks,  her  short  stay  with  the  good  old  Bishop  Petersen,  her  mar- 
riage, and  the  festival  that  followed,  had  passed  her  by  like  a 
dream.  Then  came  the  first  short  parting  with  Sunlocks  when  he 


THE   BONDMAN  181 

had  said,  "I  must  leave  you  for  a  fortnight,  for  the  men  I  sent  in 
search  of  your  father  have  blundered  and  returned  without  him." 
She  had  cried  a  little  at  that,  and  he  had  kissed  her,  and  made  a 
brave  show  of  his  courage,  though  she  could  see  the  tears  in  his 
own  big  shining  eyes.  But  it  was  all  a  dream,  a  sweet  and  happy 
dream,  and  only  by  the  coming  of  Jason  had  the  dream  been  broken. 

Then  followed  her  terror,  her  plea,  her  fear  for  her  husband's 
life,  her  defiance  of  Jason,  and  the  charge  she  made  against  him. 

And  the  first  burst  of  her  passion  over,  she  had  thought  to 
herself,  "My  husband  is  safe,  but  Jason  will  now  tell  all  and  I 
shall  be  a  lost  and  ruined  woman,"  for  nothing  had  she  yet  said  to 
Michael  Sunlocks  concerning  the  man  who  had  wooed  and  won 
and  released  her  during  the  long  years  of  his  silence  and  her 
trouble.  "He  will  hear  the  story  now,"  she  thought,  "and  not  from 
my  lips  but  from  Jason's." 

Being  then  so  far  immersed,  she  could  not  but  go  on,  and  so  she 
had  allowed  herself  to  be  led  to  the  court-house.  No  one  there  had 
thought  to  ask  her  if  she  had  known  anything  of  Jason  before  that 
day,  and  she  on  her  part  had  said  nothing  of  knowing  him.  But 
when  Jason  had  looked  at  her  with  eyes  of  reproach  that  seemed 
to  go  through  her  soul,  he  seemed  to  be  saying,  "This  is  but  half 
the  truth.  Dare  you  not  tell  the  rest?" 

Then  listening  to  the  lying  of  other  witnesses,  and  looking  up 
at  Jason's  face,  so  full  of  pain,  and  seeing  how  silent  he  was 
under  cruel  perjury,  she  remembered  that  this  man's  worst  crime 
had  been  his  love  of  her,  and  so  she  staggered  to  her  feet  to 
confess  everything. 

When  she  came  to  herself  after  that,  she  was  back  in  her  own 
home — her  new  home,  the  home  of  her  happy  dream,  her  husband's 
home  and  hers,  and  there  her  first  fear  returned  to  her.  "He  will 
tell  all,"  she  thought,  "and  evil  tongues  will  make  it  worse,  and 
shame  will  fall  upon  my  husband,  and  I  shall  be  lost,  lost,  lost." 

She  waited  with  feverish  impatience  for  the  coming  of  the 
Bishop  to  tell  her  the  result  of  the  trial,  and  at  length  he  came. 

"What  have  they  done  with  him  ?"  she  cried ;  and  he  told  her. 

"What  defense  did  he  make?"  she  asked. 

"None,"  said  the  Bishop. 

"What  did  he  say?"  she  asked  again. 

"Not  a  word  but  'No,'  "  said  the  Bishop. 

Then  she  drew  a  long  breath  of  immense  relief,  and  at  the  next 
instant  she  reproached  herself.  How  little  of  soul  she  had  been ! 
And  how  great  of  heart  had  been  Jason !  He  could  have  wrecked 
her  life  with  a  word,  but  he  had  held  his  peace.  She  had  sent  him 


182  THE   BONDMAN 

to  prison,  and  rather  than  smite  he  had  suffered  himself  to  be  smit- 
ten. She  felt  herself  small  and  mean. 

And  the  Bishop,  having,  as  he  thought,  banished  Greeba's  ter- 
ror, hobbled  to  the  door,  for  now  the  hour  was  very  late,  and  the 
snow  was  still  falling. 

"The  poor  soul  will  do  your  good  husband  no  mischief  now. 
Poor  lad !  poor  lad !  After  all,  he  is  more  fit  for  a  madhouse  than 
for  a  prison.  Good-night,  my  child,  good-night." 

And  so  the  good  old  man  went  his  way. 

It  was  intended  that  Jason  should  start  for  the  Sulphur  Mines 
on  the  following  day,  and  he  was  lodged  overnight  in  a  little  house 
of  detention  that  stood  on  the  south  of  the  High  Street.  But  the 
snow  continued  to  fall  the  whole  night  through,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing the  roads  were  impassable.  Then  it  was  decided  to  postpone 
the  long  journey  until  the  storm  should  have  passed,  the  frost  set 
in,  and  the  desolate  white  wastes  to  be  crossed  become  hard  and 
firm.  It  was  now  Wednesday  of  the  second  week  in  October — the 
Gore-month — and  the  people  were  already  settling  down  to  the  long 
rest  of  the  Icelandic  winter.  The  merchants  began  to  sleep  the 
livelong  day  in  their  deserted  stores  in  the  cheapstead,  and  the 
bonders,  who  had  come  up  with  the  last  of  their  stock,  to  drink  and 
doze  in  the  taverns.  All  that  day  the  snow  fell  in  fine  dust  like 
flour,  until,  white  as  it  was,  the  air  grew  dark  with  it.  At  the  late 
dawn  of  the  next  day  the  snow  was  still  falling,  and  a  violent  gale 
had  then  risen.  Another  and  another  and  yet  another  day  went  by, 
and  still  the  snow  fell  and  the  gale  continued.  For  two  days  there 
was  no  daylight,  and  only  at  noon  through  the  giddy  air  a  fiery 
glow  burned  for  an  hour  along  the  southern  sky  and  then  went  out. 
Nothing  could  be  seen  of  fell  or  fiord,  and  nothing  could  be  heard 
save  the  baying  of  the  hounds  at  night  and  the  roar  of  the  sea  at  all 
times,  for  the  wind  made  no  noise  in  the  soft  snow,  but  drove  it 
along  in  sheets  like  silent  ghosts. 

Never  before  had  Greeba  seen  anything  so  terrible;  and  still 
more  fearful  than  the  great  snow  itself  was  the  anxiety  it  brought 
her.  Where  was  Michael  Sunlocks  ?  Where  was  her  father  ? 
There  was  only  one  other  whose  condition  troubled  her,  and  she 
knew  too  well  where  he  was — he  was  lying  in  the  dark  cell  of  the 
dark  house  in  the  High  Street. 

While  the  storm  lasted  all  Reykjavik  lay  asleep,  and  Greeba 
could  do  nothing.  But  one  morning  when  she  awoke  and  turned  to 
the  window,  as  was  her  wont,  to  learn  if  the  weary  snow  was  still 
falling,  she  could  see  nothing  at  first  for  the  coating  of  ice  and  hoar 
frost  that  covered  the  glass.  But  the  snow  had  ceased,  the  wind 


THE   BONDMAN  183 

had  fallen,  the  air  was  clear,  and  the  light  was  coming.  The 
buildings  of  the  town,  from  the  Cathedral  to  the  hovels  of  the 
fishing  quarter,  looked  like  snow  mounds  in  the  desert;  the  black 
waste  of  lava  was  gone;  the  black  beach  was  gone;  the  black 
jokulls  were  gone;  the  black  headland  was  gone  that  had  stretched 
like  a  giant  hand  of  many  fingers  into  the  black  fiord;  but  height 
above  height,  and  length  beyond  length,  as  far  as  from  sea  to  sky, 
and  from  sea  to  sea,  the  world  lay  lifeless  and  silent  and  white 
around  her. 

Then,  the  town  being  once  more  awake,  Greeba  had  news  of 
Jason.  It  came  through  a  little  English  maid,  whom  Sunlocks  had 
found  for  her,  from  Oscar,  the  young  man  who  had  gone  out  in 
search  of  her  father  and  returned  without  him.  Jason  was  ill. 
Five  days  he  had  eaten  nothing,  and  nothing  had  he  drunk  except 
water.  He  was  in  a  fever — a  brain  fever — and  it  was  now  known 
for  certain  that  he  was  the  man  who  had  fainted  outside  the  Cathe- 
dral on  the  marriage  morning,  that  he  had  been  ill  ever  since  then, 
and  that  the  druggist  of  the  High  Street  had  bled  him. 

With  these  tidings  Greeba  hurried  away  to  the  Bishop. 

"The  poor  man  has  brain  fever,"  she  said.  "He  was  ill  when 
he  made  the  threat,  and  when  he  recovers  he  will  regret  it;  I  am 
sure  he  will — I  know  he  will.  Set  him  at  liberty,  for  mercy's  sake," 
she  cried ;  and  she  trembled  as  she  spoke,  lest  in  the  fervor  of  her 
plea  the  Bishop  should  read  her  secret. 

But  he  only  shook  his  head  and  looked  tenderly  down  at  her, 
and  said  very  gently,  though  every  word  went  to  her  heart  like  a 
stab: 

"Ah,  it  is  like  a  good  woman  to  plead  for  one  who  has  injured 
her.  But  no,  my  child,  no ;  it  may  not  be.  Poor  lad,  no  one  now 
can  do  anything  for  him  save  the  President  himself ;  and  he  is  not 
likely  to  liberate  a  man  who  lies  in  wait  to  kill  him." 

"He  is  likely,"  thought  Greeba,  and  straightway  she  conceived 
of  a  plan.  She  would  go  to  Jason  in  his  prison.  Yes,  she  herself 
would  go  to  him,  and  prevail  with  him  to  put  away  all  thoughts  of 
vengeance  and  be  at  peace  with  her  husband.  Then  she  would 
wait  for  the  return  of  Michael  Sunlocks,  and  plead  with  that  dear 
heart  that  could  deny  her  nothing,  to  grant  her  Jason's  pardon. 
Thus  it  would  come  about  that  she,  who  had  stood  between  these 
two  to  separate  them,  would  at  length  stand  between  them  to  bring 
them  together. 

So  thinking,  and  crying  a  little,  like  a  true  woman,  at  the  pros- 
pect of  so  much  joy,  she  waited  for  Jason's  recovery  that  she 
might  carry  her  purpose  into  effect.  Meantime  she  contrived  to 


1 84  THE    BONDMAN 

send  him  jellies  and  soups,  such  as  might  tempt  the  appetite  of  a 
sick  man.  She  thought  she  sent  them  secretly,  but  with  less  than 
a  woman's  wit  she  employed  a  woman  on  her  errand.  This  person 
was  the  little  English  maid,  and  she  handed  over  the  duty  to  Oscar, 
who  was  her  sweetheart.  Oscar  talked  openly  of  what  he  was 
doing,  and  thus  all  Reykjavik  knew  that  the  tender-hearted  young 
wife  of  the  Governor  held  communications  of  some  sort  with  the 
man  whom  she  had  sent  to  jail. 

Then  one  day,  on  hearing  that  Jason  was  better,  though  neither 
was  he  so  well  as  to  travel  nor  was  the  snow  hard  enough  to  walk 
upon,  Greeba  stole  across  to  the  prison  in  the  dark  of  the  afternoon, 
saying  nothing  to  any  one  of  her  mission  or  intention. 

The  stuttering  doorkeeper  of  the  Senate  was  the  jailer,  and 
he  betrayed  great  concern  when  Greeba  asked  to  see  his  prisoner, 
showing  by  his  ghastly  looks,  for  his  words  would  not  come,  that 
it  would  be  rash  on  her  part,  after  helping  so  much  toward  Jason's 
imprisonment,  to  trust  herself  in  his  presence. 

"But  what  have  I  to  fear  ?"  she  thought ;  and  with  a  brave  smile, 
she  pushed  her  way  through. 

She  found  Jason  in  a  square  box  built  of  heavy  piles,  laid  hori- 
zontally both  for  walls  and  roof,  dark  and  damp  and  muggy, 
lighted  in  the  day  by  a  hole  in  the  wood  not  larger  than  a  man's 
hand,  and  in  the  night  by  a  sputtering  candle  hung  from  the  rafters. 
He  sat  on  a  stool;  his  face  was  worn,  his  head  was  close-cropped 
to  relieve  the  heat  of  his  brain,  and  on  the  table  by  his  side  lay 
all  his  red  hair,  as  long  as  his  mother's  was  when  it  fell  to  the 
shears  of  the  Jew  on  the  wharf. 

He  gave  no  sign  when  Greeba  entered,  though  he  knew  she  was 
there,  but  sat  with  his  face  down  and  one  hand  on  the  table. 

"Jason,"  she  said,  "I  am  ashamed.  It  is  I  who  have  brought  you 
to  this.  Forgive  me!  forgive  me!  But  my  husband's  life  was  in 
danger,  and  what  was  I  to  do?" 

Still  he  gave  no  sign. 

"Jason,"  she  said  again,  "you  have  heaped  coals  of  fire  on  my 
head;  for  I  have  done  nothing  but  injure  you,  and  though  you 
might  have  done  as  much  for  me  you  never  have." 

At  that  the  fingers  of  his  hand  on  the  table  grasped  the  edge  of 
it  convulsively. 

"But,  Jason,"  she  said,  "all  is  not  lost  yet.  No,  for  I  can  save 
you  still.  Listen.  You  shall  give  me  your  promise  to  make  peace 
with  my  husband,  and  when  my  husband  returns  he  will  grant  me 
your  pardon.  Oh,  yes,  I  know  he  will,  for  he  is  tender-hearted, 
and  he  will  forgive  you ;  yes,  he  will  forgive  you — " 


THE   BONDMAN  185 

"My  curse  on  him  and  his  forgiveness,"  cried  Jason,  rising  sud- 
denly and  bringing  down  his  fist  on  the  table.  "Who  is  he  that 
he  should  forgive  me?  It  has  not  been  for  his  sake  that  I  have 
been  silent,  with  the  devil  at  my  side  urging  me  to  speak.  And  for 
all  that  you  have  made  me  to  suffer  he  shall  yet  pay  double.  Let 
it  go  on ;  let  him  send  me  away ;  let  him  bury  me  at  his  mines.  But 
I  shall  live  to  find  him  yet.  Something  tells  me  that  I  shall  not  die 
until  I  have  met  with  that  man  face  to  face." 

And  Greeba  went  back  home  with  these  mad  words  ringing  in 
her  ears.  "It  is  useless  to  try,"  she  thought.  "I  have  done  all  I 
can.  My  husband  is  before  everything.  I  shall  say  nothing  to  him 
now." 

None  the  less  she  cried  very  bitterly,  and  was  still  crying  when 
at  bedtime  her  little  English  maid  came  up  to  her  and  chattered  of 
the  news  of  the  day.  It  seemed  that  some  Danish  storekeepers  on 
the  cheapstead  had  lately  been  arrested  as  spies,  brought  to  trial, 
and  condemned. 

When  Greeba  awoke  next  morning,  after  a  restless  night,  while 
the  town  still  lay  asleep,  and  only  the  croak  of  the  ravens  from  the 
rocks  above  the  fiord  broke  the  silence  of  the  late  dawn,  she  heard 
the  hollow  tread  of  many  footsteps  on  the  frozen  snow  of  the  Thing- 
vellir  road  and  peering  out  through  the  window,  which  was  coated 
with  hoar  frost,  she  saw  a  melancholy  procession.  Three  men, 
sparsely  clad  in  thin  tunics,  snow  stockings,  and  skin  caps,  walked 
heavily  in  file,  chained  together  hand  to  hand  and  leg  to  leg,  with 
four  armed  warders,  closely  muffled  to  the  ears,  riding  leisurely  be- 
side them.  They  were  prisoners  bound  for  the  sulphur  mines  of 
Krisuvik.  The  first  of  them  was  Jason,  and  he  swung  along  with 
his  long  stride  and  his  shorn  head  thrown  back  and  his  pallid  face 
held  up.  The  other  two  were  old  Thomsen  and  young  Polvesen, 
the  Danish  storekeepers. 

It  was  more  than  Greeba  could  bear  to  look  upon  that  sight, 
for  it  brought  back  the  memory  of  that  other  sight  on  that  other 
morning,  when  Jason  came  leaping  down  to  her  from  the  moun- 
tains, over  gorse  and  cushag  and  hedge  and  ditch.  So  she  turned 
her  head  away  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands.  And  then 
one — two — three — four — the  heavy  footsteps  went  on  over  the  snow. 

The  next  thing  she  knew  was  that  her  English  maid  was  in  her 
bedroom,  saying,  "Some  strangers  in  the  kitchen  are  asking  for 
you.  They  are  Englishmen,  and  have  just  come  ashore,  and  they 
call  themselves  your  brothers." 


186  THE   BONDMAN 


CHAPTER   X 

THE     FAIRBROTHERS 

Now  when  the  Fairbrothers  concluded  that  they  could  never 
give  rest  to  their  tender  consciences  until  they  had  done  right  by 
their  poor  sister  Greeba  they  set  themselves  straightway  to  con- 
sider the  ways  and  means.  Ballacraine  they  must  sell  in  order  that 
its  proceeds  might  be  taken  to  Greeba  as  her  share  and  interest; 
but  Ballacraine  belonged  to  Jacob,  and  another  provision  would 
forthwith  need  to  be  made  for  him.  So  after  much  arguing  and 
some  nagging  across  the  hearth  of  the  kitchen  at  Lague  it  was 
decided  that  each  of  Jacob's  five  brothers  should  mortgage  his 
farm  to  one-sixth  its  value,  and  that  the  gross  sum  of  their  five- 
sixths  should  be  Jacob's  for  his  share.  This  arrangement  would 
have  the  disadvantage  of  leaving  Jacob  without  land,  but  he  showed 
a  magnanimous  spirit  in  that  relation.  "Don't  trouble  about  me," 
said  he,  "it's  sweet  and  nice  to  do  a  kindness  to  your  own  brothers." 

And  four  of  his  brethren  applauded  that  sentiment,  but  Thur- 
stan  curled  up  his  red  nose  and  thought,  "Aw,  yes,  of  coorse,  a 
powerful  big  boiler  of  brotherly  love  the  little  miser  keeps  going 
under  his  weskit." 

And  having  so  decided  they  further  concluded  to  see  the  crops 
off  the  ground,  and  then  lose  no  time  in  carrying  out  their  design. 
"Let's  wait  for  the  melya,"  said  Asher,  meaning  the  harvest-home, 
"and  then  off  for  Marky  the  Lord."  The  person  who  went  by  this 
name  was  one  Mark  Skillicorn,  an  advocate,  of  Ramsey,  who  com- 
bined the  functions  of  pettifogger  with  those  of  money-lender  and 
auctioneer.  Marky  the  Lord  was  old,  and  plausible  and  facetious. 
He  was  a  distant  relative  of  the  Fairbrothers  by  the  side  of  their 
mother's  French  family ;  and  it  was  a  strange  chain  of  circumstances 
that  no  big  farmer  ever  got  into  trouble  but  he  became  a  client  of 
Marky  the  Lord's,  that  no  client  of  Marky  the  Lord's  did  not  in  the 
end  go  altogether  to  the  bad,  and  that  poor  Marky  the  Lord  never 
had  a  client  who  did  not  die  in  his  debt.  Nevertheless,  Marky  the 
Lord  grew  richer  as  his  losses  grew  heavier,  and  more  facetious  as 
his  years  increased.  Oh,  he  was  a  funny  dog,  was  Marky  the  Lord; 
but  there  was  just  one  dog  on  the  island  a  shade  or  two  funnier 


THE    BONDMAN  187 

still,  and  that  was  Jacob  Fairbrother.  This  thrifty  soul  had  for 
many  a  year  kept  a  nest  of  private  savings,  and  even  in  the  days 
when  he  and  his  brethren  went  down  to  make  a  poor  mouth  before 
their  father  at  Castletown  he  had  money  secretly  lent  out  on  the 
conscientious  interest  of  only  three  per  cent  above  the  legal  rate. 

And  thus  it  chanced  that  when  Ballacraine  was  advertised  in  big 
letters  on  every  barn  door  in  the  north  of  Man,  Jacob  Fairbrother 
went  down  to  Marky  the  Lord,  and  made  a  private  bargain  to  buy 
it  in  again.  So  when  the  day  of  the  sale  carne,  and  Marky  the  Lord 
strode  over  the  fields  with  some  thirty  men — farmers,  miners,  advo- 
cates, and  parsons — at  his  heels,  and  then  drew  up  on  the  roadside 
by  the  "Hibernian,"  and  there  mounted  the  tail-board  of  a  cart 
for  the  final  reckoning,  little  Jacob  was  too  much  moved  to  be 
present,  though  his  brothers  were  there,  all  glooming  around  on  the 
outside  of  the  group,  with  their  hands  in  their  breeches  pockets. 

Ballacraine  was  knocked  down  cheap  to  somebody  that  nobody 
knew,  and  then  came  the  work  of  the  mortgages;  so  once  again 
Jacob  went  off  to  Marky  the  Lord,  and  bargained  to  be  made 
mortgagor,  though  no  one  was  to  be  a  whit  the  wiser.  And  ten  per 
cent  he  was  to  get  from  each  of  his  five  brothers  for  the  use 
of  the  money  which  next  day  came  back  to  his  own  hands. 

Thus  far  all  was  straight  dealing,  but  with  the  approach  of  the 
time  to  go  to  Iceland  the  complications  grew  thick.  Jacob  had  so 
husbanded  his  money  that  while  seeming  to  spend  he  still  pos- 
sessed it,  and  now  he  was  troubled  to  know  where  to  lodge  that  por- 
tion of  it  which  he  should  not  want  in  Iceland  and  might  find  it 
unsafe  to  take  there.  And  while  he  was  in  the  throes  of  his 
uncertainty  his  brothers — all  save  John — were  in  the  travail  of 
their  own  big  conception. 

Now  Asher,  Stean,  Ross,  and  Thurstan,  having  each  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  would  go  to  Iceland  also,  had  to  consider  how  to 
get  there,  for  the  late  bargaining  had  left  them  all  penniless.  The 
proceeds  of  the  sale  of  Ballacraine  were  lodged  with  Jacob  for 
Greeba,  and  Jacob  also  held  as  his  own  what  had  come  to  each  man 
from  his  mortgage.  So  thinking  that  Jacob  must  have  more  than 
he  could  want,  they  approached  him  one  by  one,  confidentially  and 
slyly.  And  wondrous  were  the  lies  they  told  him,  for  they  dared 
not  confess  that  their  sole  need  of  money  was  to  go  to  Iceland  after 
him,  and  watch  him  that  he  did  not  cheat  them  when  Greeba 
sent  them  all  their  fortunes  in  return  for  their  brotherly  love 
of  her. 

Thus  Asher  took  Jacob  aside  and  whispered,  "I'm  morthal  hard 
pressed  for  a  matter  of  five-and-thirty  pound,  boy— just  five-and- 


188  THE   BONDMAN 

thirty,  for  draining  and  fencing.  I  make  bold  to  think  you'll  lend 
me  the  like  of  it,  and  six  per  cent  I'll  be  paying  reg'lar." 

"Ah,  I  can't  do  it,  Asher,"  said  Jacob,  "for  old  Marky  the 
Lord  has  stripped  me." 

Then  came  Stean,  plucking  a  bit  of  ling  and  looking  careless, 
and  he  said,  "I've  got  a  fine  thing  on  now.  I  can  buy  a  yoke  of 
plowing  oxen  for  thirty  pound.  Only  thirty,  and  a  dead  bargain. 
Can  you  lend  me  the  brass?  But  whisht's  the  word,  for  Ross  is 
sneaking  after  them." 

"Very  sorry,  Stean,"  said  Jacob,  "but  Ross  has  been  here  be- 
fore you,  and  I've  just  lent  him  the  money." 

Ross  himself  came  next,  and  said,  "I  borrowed  five-and-twenty 
pound  from  Stean  a  bit  back,  and  he's  not  above  threatening  to  sell 
me  up  for  a  dirty  little  debt  like  that.  Maybe  ye'd  tide  me  over 
the  trouble  and  say  nothing  to  Stean." 

"Make  your  mind  easy,  Ross,"  said  Jacob,  "Stean  told  me  him- 
self, and  I've  paid  him  all  you  owe  him." 

So  these  two  went  their  ways  and  thereafter  eyed  each  other 
threateningly,  but  neither  dared  explode,  for  both  had  their  secret 
fear.  And  last  of  all  came  Thurstan,  made  well  drunk  for  the 
better  support  of  his  courage,  and  he  maudled  and  cried,  "What 
d'ye  think?  Poor  Ballabeg  is  dead — him  that  used  to  play  the 
fiddle  at  church — and  the  old  parson  wants  me  to  take  Ballabeg's 
place  up  in  the  gallery-loft.  Says  I'd  be  wonderful  good  at  the 
viol-bass.  I  wouldn't  mind  doing  it  neither,  only  it  costs  such  a 
power  of  money,  a  viol-bass  does — twenty  pound  maybe." 

"Well,  what  of  that?"  said  Jacob,  interrupting  him.  "The  par- 
son says  he'll  lend  you  the  money.  He  told  me  so  himself." 

With  such  shrewd  answers  did  Jacob  escape  from  the  danger 
of  lending  to  his  brothers,  whom  he  could  not  trust.  But  he  lost 
no  time  in  going  down  to  Marky  the  Lord  and  offering  his  money 
to  be  lent  out  on  interest  with  good  security.  Knowing  nothing 
of  this,  Asher,  Stean,  Ross,  and  Thurstan  each  in  his  turn  stole  down 
to  Marky  the  Lord  to  borrow  the  sum  he  needed.  And  Marky  the 
Lord  kept  his  own  worthy  counsel  and  showed  no  unwise  eager- 
ness. First  he  said  to  Jacob,  "I  can  lend  out  your  money  on  good 
security." 

"Who  to?"  said  Jacob. 

"That  I've  given  my  word  not  to  tell.  What  interest  do  you 
want?" 

"Not  less  than  twelve  per  cent,"  said  the  temperate  Jacob. 

"I'll  get  it,"  said  Marky  the  Lord,  and  Jacob  went  away  with  a 
sly  smile. 


THE   BONDMAN  189 

Then  said  Marky  the  Lord  to  each  of  the  borrowers  in  turn,  "I 
can  find  you  the  money." 

"Whose  is  it?"  asked  Asher.  who  came  the  first. 

"That  I've  sworn  not  to  tell,"  said  Marky  the  Lord. 

"What  interest?" 

"Only  four  per  cent  to  my  friend." 

"Well,  and  that's  reasonable,  and  he's  a  right  honest,  well- 
meaning  man,  whoever  he  is,"  said  Asher. 

"That  he  is,  friend,"  said  Marky  the  Lord,  "but  as  he  had 
not  got  the  money  himself  he  had  to  borrow  it  of  an  acquaintance, 
and  pay  ten  per  cent  for  the  convenience." 

"So  he  wants  fourteen  per  cent !"  cried  Asher.  "Shoo !  Lord 
save  us !  Oh,  the  grasping  miser.  It's  outrageous.  I'll  not  pay  it 
— the  Nightman  fly  away  with  me  if  I  do." 

"You  need  be  under  no  uneasiness  about  that,"  said  Marky  the 
Lord,  "for  I've  three  other  borrowers  ready  to  take  the  money 
the  moment  you  say  you  won't." 

"Hand  it  out,"  said  Asher,  and  away  he  went,  fuming. 

Then  Stean,  Ross,  and  Thurstan  followed,  one  by  one,  and  each 
behaved  as  Asher  had  done  before  him.  When  the  transaction  was 
complete,  and  the  time  had  come  to  set  sail  for  Iceland,  many  and 
wonderful  were  the  shifts  of  the  four  who  had  formed  the  secret 
design  to  conceal  their  busy  preparations.  But  when  all  was  com- 
plete, and  berths  taken,  all  six  in  the  same  vessel,  Jacob  and  Gen- 
tleman John  rode  round  the  farms  of  Lague  to  bid  a  touching 
farewell  to  their  brethren. 

"Good-by,  Thurstan,"  said  Jacob,  sitting  on  the  cross-board  of 
the  cart.  "We've  had  arguments  in  our  time,  and  fallen  on  some 
rough  harm  in  the  course  of  them,  but  we'll  meet  for  peace  and 
quietness  in  heaven  some  day." 

"We'll  meet  before  that,"  thought  Thurstan. 

And  when  Jacob  and  John  were  gone  on  toward  Ramsey,  Thur- 
stan mounted  the  tail-board  of  his  own  cart  and  followed.  Meantime 
Asher,  Stean,  and  Ross  were  on  their  journey,  and  because  they  did 
not  cross  on  the  road  they  came  face  to  face  for  the  first  time,  all 
six  together,  each  lugging  his  kit  of  clothes  behind  him,  on  the  deck 
of  the  ship  that  was  to  take  them  to  Iceland.  Then  Jacob's  pale 
face  grew  livid. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  cried. 

"It  means  that  we  can't  trust  you,"  said  Thurstan. 

"Xone  of  you?"  said  Jacob. 

"None  of  us,  seemingly,"  said  Thurstan,  glancing  round  into 
the  confused  faces  about  him. 


190  THE   BONDMAN 

"What!     Not  your  own  brother?"  said  Jacob. 

"  'Near  is  my  shirt,  but  nearer  is  my  skin/  as  the  saying  is," 
said  Thurstan,  with  a  sneer. 

"  'Poor  once,  poor  forever/  as  the  saying  is,"  mocked  Jacob. 
"Last  week  you  hadn't  twenty  pound  to  buy  your  viol-bass  to  play 
in  the  gallery-loft." 

Stean  laughed  at  that,  and  Jacob  turned  hotly  upon  him.  "And 
you  hadn't  thirty  pound  to  buy  your  yoke  of  oxen  that  Ross  was 
sneaking  after." 

Then  Ross  made  a  loud  guffaw,  and  Jacob  faced  about  to  him. 
"And  maybe  you've  paid  back  your  dirty  five-and-twenty  pound 
that  Stean  threatened  to  sell  you  up  for?" 

Then  Stean  glowered  hard  at  Ross,  and  Ross  looked  black  at 
Stean,  and  Asher  almost  burst  his  sides  with  laughter. 

"And  you,  too,  my  dear  eldest  brother,"  said  Jacob,  bitterly, 
"you  have  the  advantage  of  me  in  years  but  not  in  wisdom.  You 
thought,  like  the  rest  of  them,  to  get  the  money  out  of  me,  to  help 
you  to  follow  me  and  w&tch  me.  So  that  was  it,  was  it?  But  I 
was  too  much  for  you,  my  dear  brother,  and  you  had  to  go  else- 
where for  your  draining  and  ditching." 

"So  I  had,  bad  cess  to  you,"  said  Asher ;  "and  fourteen  per  cent 
I  had  to  pay  for  the  shabby  loan  I  got." 

At  that  Stean  and  Ross  and  Thurstan  pricked  up  their 
ears. 

"And  did  you  pay  fourteen  per  cent?"  said  Stean. 

"I  did,  bad  cess  to  Marky  the  Lord,  and  the  grasping  old  miser 
behind  him,  whoever  he  is." 

And  now  it  was  Jacob's  turn  to  look  amazed. 

"Wait,"  he  said;  "I  don't  like  the  look  of  you." 

"Then  shut  your  eyes,"  said  Thurstan. 

"Did  Marky  the  Lord  lend  you  the  money?"  asked  Jacob  of 
Asher. 

"Ay,  he  did,"  said  Asher. 

"And  you,  too?"  §aid  Jacob,  turning  stiffly  to  Stean. 

"Ay,"  said  Stean. 

"And  you?"  said  Jacob,  facing  toward  Ross. 

"I  darn  say  no,"  said  Ross. 

"And  you,  as  well?"  said  Jacob,  confronting  Thurstan. 

"Why  not?"  said  Thurstan. 

"The  blockhead!"  cried  Jacob.  "The  scoundrel!  It  was  my 
money — mine — mine,  I  tell  you,  and  he  might  as  well  have  pitched 
it  into  the  sea." 

Then  the  four  men  began  to  double  their  fists. 


THE   BONDMAN  191 

"Wait !"  said  Asher.  "Are  you  the  grasping  young  miser  that 
asked  fourteen  per  cent?" 

"He  is,  clear  enough,"  said  Stean. 

"Well,"  said  Thurstan,  "I  really  think — look  you,  boys,  I  really 
do  think,  but  I  speak  under  correction — I  really  think,  all  things 
considered,  this  Jacob  is  a  damned  rascal." 

"I  may  have  the  advantage  of  him  in  years,"  said  Asher, 
doubling  up  his  sleeves,  "but  if  I  can't — " 

"Go  to  the  devil,"  said  Jacob,  and  he  went  below,  boiling  hot 
with  rage. 

It  was  idle  to  keep  up  the  quarrel,  for  very  soon  all  six  were  out 
on  the  high  seas,  bound  to  each  other's  company  at  bed  and  board, 
and  doomed  to  pass  the  better  part  of  a  fortnight  together.  So 
before  they  came  to  Iceland  they  were  good  friends,  after  their 
fashion,  though  that  was  perhaps  the  fashion  of  cat  and  mouse, 
and  being  landed  at  Reykjavik  they  were  once  more  in  their  old 
relations,  with  Jacob  as  purse-bearer  and  spokesman. 

"And  now  listen,"  said  that  thrifty  person.  "What's  it  saying? 
'A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush.'  We've  got  our  bird 
in  the  hand,  haven't  we?" 

"So  we  have,"  said  Asher;  "six  hundred  golden  pounds  that 
Ballacraine  fetched  at  the  sale." 

"Just  so,"  said  Jacob;  "and  before  we  part  with  it  let  us  make 
sure  about  the  two  in  the  bush." 

With  that  intention  they  started  inquiries,  as  best  they  could; 
touching  the  position  of  Michael  Sunlocks,  his  salary  and  in- 
fluence. 

And  in  spite  of  the  difficulties  of  language  they  heard  and 
saw  enough  to  satisfy  them.  Old  Iceland  was  awakening  from 
a  bad  dream  of  three  bad  centuries  and  setting  to  work  with  a  will 
to  become  a  power  among  the  States ;  the  young  President,  Michael 
Sunlocks,  was  the  restorer  and  protector  of  her  liberties;  fame 
and  honor  were  before  him,  and  before  all  who  laid  a  hand  to 
his  plow.  This  was  what  they  heard  in  many  jargons  on  every 
side. 

"It's  all  right,"  whispered  Jacob,  "and  now  for  the  girl." 

They  had  landed  late  in  the  day  of  Greeba's  visit  to  Red  Jason 
at  the  little  house  of  detention,  and  had  heard  of  her  marriage,  of 
its  festivities,  and  of  the  attempt  on  the  life  of  the  President.  But 
though  they  knew  that  Jason  was  no  longer  in  Man  they  were 
too  much  immersed  in  their  own  vast  schemes  to  put  two  and  two 
together,  until  next  morning  they  came  upon  the  sad  procession 
bound  for  the  Sulphur  Mines,  and  saw  that  Jason  was  one  of  the 


192  THE   BONDMAN 

prisoners.  They  were  then  on  their  way  to  Government  House, 
and  Jacob  said  with  a  wink,  "Boys,  that's  worth  remembering. 
When  did  it  do  any  harm  to  have  two  strings  to  your  bow?" 

The  others  laughed  at  that,  and  John  nudged  Thurstan  and  said, 
"Isn't  he  a  boy?"  And  Thurstan  grunted  and  trudged  on. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  kitchen  door  of  the  house  they  asked 
for  Greeba  by  her  new  name,  and  after  some  inarticulate  fencing 
with  a  fat  Icelandic  cook,  the  little  English  maid  was  brought 
down  to  them. 

"Leave  her  to  me,"  whispered  Jacob,  and  straightway  he  tackled 
her. 

Could  they  see  the  mistress?  What  about?  Well,  it  was  a  bit 
of  a  private  matter,  but  no  disrespect  to  herself,  miss.  Aw,  yes, 
they  were  Englishmen — that's  to  say  a  sort  of  Englishmen — being 
Manxmen.  Would  the  mistress  know  them?  Ay,  go  bail  on  that. 
Eh,  boys  ?  Ha !  ha !  Fact  was  they  were  her  brothers,  miss.  Yes, 
her  brothers,  all  six  of  them,  and  longing  mortal  to  clap  eyes  again 
on  their  sweet  little  sister. 

And  after  that  Master  Jacob  addressed  himself  adroitly  to  an 
important  question,  and  got  most  gratifying  replies.  Oh,  yes,  the 
President  loved  his  young  wife  beyond  words ;  worshiped  the  very 
ground  she  walked  on,  as  they  say.  And,  oh,  yes,  she  had  great,  great 
influence  with  him,  and  he  would  do  any  thing  in  the  wide  world 
to  please  her. 

"That'll  do,"  whispered  Jacob  over  his  shoulder,  as  the  little 
maid  tripped  away  to  inform  her  mistress.  "I'll  give  that  girl  a  shil- 
ling when  she  comes  again,"  he  added. 

"And  give  her  another  for  me,"  said  Stean. 

"And  me,"  said  Asher. 

"Seeing  that  I've  no  land  at  home  now  I  wouldn't  mind  staying 
here  when  you  all  go  back,"  said  Jacob. 

"I'll  sell  you  mine,  Jacob,"  said  Thurstan. 

The  maid  returned  to  ask  them  to  follow,  and  they  went  after 
her,  stroking  their  lank  hair  smooth  on  their  foreheads,  and  study- 
ing the  remains  of  the  snow  on  their  boots.  When  they  came  to 
the  door  of  the  room  where  they  were  to  meet  with  Greeba,  Jacob 
whispered  to  the  little  maid,  "I'll  give  you  a  crown  when  I  come 
out  again."  Then  he  twisted  his  face  over  his  shoulder  and  said, 
"Do  as  I  do;  d'ye  hear?" 

"Isn't  he  a  boy  ?"  chuckled  Gentleman  John. 

Then  into  the  room  they  passed,  one  by  one,  all  six  in  file. 
Greeba  was  standing  by  a  table,  erect,  quivering,  with  flashing  eyes, 
and  the  old  trembling  on  both  sides  of  her  heart.  Jacob  and  John 


THE   BONDMAN  193 

instantly  went  down  on  one  knee  before  her,  and  their  four  lumber- 
ing brethren  behind  made  shift  to  do  the  same. 

"So  we  have  found  you  at  last,  thank  God,"  said  Jacob,  in  a 
mighty  burst  of  fervor. 

"Thank  God,  thank  God,"  the  others  echoed. 

"Ah,  Greeba,"  said  Jacob,  in  a  tone  of  sorrowful  reproach, 
"why  ever  did  you  go  away  without  warning,  and  leave  us  all  so 
racked  with  suspense  ?  You  little  knew  how  you  grieved  us,  seem- 
ing to  slight  our  love  and  kindness  toward  you — " 

"Stop,"  said  Greeba.  "I  know  too  well  what  your  love  and 
kindness  have  been  to  me.  Why  have  you  come?" 

"Don't  say  that,"  said  Jacob,  sadly,  "for  see  what  we  have  made 
free  to  fetch  you — six  hundred  pound,"  he  added,  lugging  a  bag  and 
a  roll  of  paper  out  of  his  pocket. 

"Six  hundred  golden  pounds,"  repeated  the  others. 

"It's  your  share  of  Lague — your  full  share,  Greeba,  woman," 
said  Jacob,  deliberately,  "and  every  penny  of  it  is  yours;  so  take 
it,  and  may  it  bring  you  a  blessing,  Greeba.  And  don't  think  unkind 
of  us  because  we  have  held  it  back  until  now,  for  we  kept  it  from 
you  for  your  own  good,  seeing  plain  there  was  some  one  harking 
after  you  for  sake  of  what  you  had,  and  fearing  your  good  money 
would  thereby  fall  into  evil  hands,  and  you  be  made  poor  and 
penniless." 

"Ay,  ay,"  muttered  the  others,  "that  Jason — that  Red  Jason." 

"But  he's  gone  now,  and  serve  him  right,"  said  Jacob,  "and 
you're  wedded  to  the  right  man,  praise  God." 

So  saying  he  shambled  to  his  feet,  and  his  brothers  did  likewise. 

But  Greeba  stood  without  moving,  and  said  through  her  com- 
pressed lips,  "How  did  you  know  that  I  was  here?" 

"The  letter,  the  letter,"  Asher  blurted  out,  and  Jacob  gave  him 
a  side-long  look,  and  then  said: 

"Ye  see,  dear,  it  was  this  way.  When  you  were  gone,  and  we 
didn't  know  where  to  look  for  you,  and  were  sore  grieved  to  think 
you'd  maybe  left  us  in  anger,  not  rightly  seeing  our  drift  toward 
you,  we  could  do  nothing  but  sit  about  and  fret  for  you.  And  one 
day  we  were  turning  over  some  things  in  a  box,  just  to  bring 
back  the  memory  of  you,  when  what  should  we  find  but  a  letter 
writ  to  you  by  the  good  man  himself." 

"Ay,  Sunlocks — Michael  Sunlocks,"  said  Stean. 

"And  a  right  good  man  he  is,  beyond  gainsay;  and  he  knows 
how  to  go  through  life,  and  I  always  said  it,"  said  Asher. 

And  Jacob  continued,  "So  said  I ;  'Boys,'  I  said,  'now  we  know 
where  she  is,  and  that  by  this  time  she  must  have  married  the  man 

9  Vol.  II. 


I94  THE   BONDMAN 

she  ought,  let's  do  the  right  by  her  and  sell  Ballacraine,  and  take 
her  the  money  and  give  her  joy.'  " 

"So  you  did,  so  you  did,"  said  John. 

"And  we  sold  it  dirt  cheap,  too,"  said  Jacob,  "but  you're  not  the 
loser;  no,  for  here  is  a  full  seventh  of  all  Lague  straight  to  your 
hand." 

"Give  me  the  money,"  said  Greeba. 

"And  there  it  is  dear,"  said  Jacob,  fumbling  the  notes  and  the 
gold  to  count  them,  while  his  brethren,  much  gratified  by  this  sign 
of  Greeba's  complacency,  began  to  stretch  their  legs  from  the 
easy  chairs  about  them. 

"And  a  pretty  penny  it  has  cost  us  to  fetch  it,"  said  John. 
"We've  had  to  pinch  ourselves  to  do  it,  I  can  tell  you." 

"How  much  has  it  cost  you?"  said  Greeba. 

"No  matter  of  that,"  interrupted  Jacob,  with  a  lofty  sweep  of 
the  hand. 

"Let  me  pay  you  back  what  you  have  spent  in  coming,"  said 
Greeba. 

"Not  a  pound  of  it,"  said  Jacob.  "What's  a  matter  of  forty  or 
fifty  pounds  to  any  of  us,  compared  to  doing  what's  right  by  our 
own  flesh  and  blood?" 

"Let  me  pay  you,"  said  Greeba,  turning  to  Asher,  and  Asher 
was  for  holding  out  his  hand,  but  Jacob,  coming  behind  him,  tugged 
at  his  coat,  and  so  he  drew  back  and  said : 

"Aw,  no,  child;  I  couldn't  touch  it  for  my  life." 

"Then  you,"  said  Greeba  to  Thurstan,  and  Thurstan  looked  as 
hungry  as  a  hungry  gull  at  the  bait  that  was  offered  him,  but  just 
then  Jacob  was  coughing  most  lamentably.  So  with  a  wry  face, 
that  was  all  colors  at  once,  Thurstan  answered:  "Aw,  Greeba, 
woman,  do  you  really  think  a  poor  man  has  got  no  feelings  ?  Don't 
press  it,  woman,  you'll  hurt  me." 

Recking  nothing  of  these  refusals  Greeba  tried  each  of  the 
others  in  turn,  and  getting  the  same  answer  from  all,  she  wheeled 
about,  saying,  "Very  well,  be  it  so,"  and  quickly  locked  the  money 
in  the  drawer  of  a  cabinet.  This  done,  she  said  sharply,  "Now, 
you  can  go." 

"Go?"  they  cried,  looking  up  from  their  seats  in  bewilderment. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "before  my  husband  returns." 

"Before  he  returns?"  said  Jacob.  "Why,  Greeba,  we  wish  to 
see  him." 

"You  had  better  not  wait,"  said  Greeba,  "he  might  remember 
what  you  appear  to  forget." 

"Why,"  said  Jacob,  with  every  accent  of  incredulity,  "and  isn't 


THE   BONDMAN  195 

he  our  brother,  so  to  say,  brought  up  in  the  house  of  our  own 
father?" 

"And  he  knows  what  you  did  for  our  poor  father,  who  wouldn't 
lie  shipwrecked  now  but  for  your  heartless  cruelty,"  said  Greeba. 

"Greeba,  lass,  Greeba,  lass,"  Jacob  protested,  "don't  say  he 
wouldn't  take  kind  to  the  own  brothers  of  his  own  wife." 

"He  also  knows  what  you  did  for  her,"  said  Greeba,  "and 
the  sorry  plight  you  brought  her  to." 

"What !"  cried  Jacob,  "you  never  mean  to  say  you  are  going  to 
show  an  ungrateful  spirit,  Greeba,  after  all  we've  brought  you?" 

"Small  thanks  to  you  for  that,  after  defrauding  me  so  long," 
said  Greeba. 

"What !  Keeping  you  from  marrying  that  cheating  knave  ?" 
cried  Jacob. 

"You  kept  me  from  nothing  but  my  just  rights,"  said  Greeba. 
"Now  go — go." 

Her  words  fell  on  them  like  swords  that  smote  them  hip  and 
thigh,  and  like  sheep  they  huddled  together  with  looks  of  amaze- 
ment and  fear. 

"Why,  Greeba,  you  don't  mean  to  turn  us  out  of  the  house,"  said 
Jacob. 

"And  if  I  do,"  said  Greeba,  "it  is  no  more  than  you  did  for 
our  dear  old  father,  but  less ;  for  that  house  was  his,  while  this  is 
mine,  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  show  your  wicked  faces  in- 
side its  doors." 

"Oh,  the  outrageous  little  atomy,"  cried  Asher. 

"This  is  the  thanks  you  get  for  crossing  the  seas  to  pay  people 
what  there  was  never  no  call  to  give  them,"  said  Stean. 

"Oh,  bad  cess  to  it  all,"  cried  Ross,  "I'll  take  what  it  cost  me 
to  come,  and  get  away  straight.  Give  it  me,  and  I'm  off." 

"No,"  said  Greeba,  "I'll  have  no  half  measures.  You  refused 
what  I  offered  you,  and  now  you  shall  have  nothing." 

"Och,  the  sly  slut — the  crafty  young  minx,"  cried  Ross,  "to 
get  a  hold  of  the  money  first." 

"Hush,  boys,  leave  it  to  me,"  said  Jacob.  "Greeba,"  he  said,  in 
a  voice  of  deep  sorrow,  "I  never  should  have  believed  it  of  you — 
you  that  was  always  so  kind  and  loving  to  strangers,  not  to  speak 
of  your  own  kith  and  kin — " 

"Stop  that,"  cried  Greeba,  lifting  her  head  proudly,  her  eyes 
flashing,  and  the  woman  all  over  aflame.  "Do  you  think  I  don't 
see  through  your  paltry  schemes  ?  You  defrauded  me  when  I  was 
poor  and  at  your  mercy,  and  now  when  you  think  I  am  rich,  and 
could  do  you  a  service,  you  come  to  me  on  your  knees.  But  I 


196  THE   BONDMAN 

spurn  you,  you  mean,  groveling  men,  you  that  impoverished  my 
father  and  then  turned  your  backs  upon  him,  you  that  plotted 
against  my  husband  and  would  now  lick  the  dust  under  his  feet. 
Get  out  of  my  house,  and  never  darken  my  doors  again.  Come 
here  no  more,  I  tell  you,  or  I  will  disown  you.  Go — go!" 

And  just  as  sheep  they  had  huddled  together,  so  as  sheep  she 
swept  them  out  before  her.  They  trooped  away  through  the 
kitchen  and  past  the  little  English  maid,  but  their  eyes  were  down 
and  they  did  not  see  her. 

"Did  ye  give  her  that  crown  piece?"  asked  Thurstan,  looking 
into  Jacob's  eyes.  But  Jacob  said  nothing — he  only  swore  a 
little. 

"The  numskull!"  muttered  Thurstan.  "The  tomfool!  The 
booby !  The  mooncalf !  The  jobbernow !  I  was  a  fool  to  join  his 
crack-brained  scheme." 

"I  always  said  it  would  come  to  nothing,"  said  Asher,  "and 
we've  thrown  away  five  and  thirty  pound  apiece,  and  fourteen  per 
cent  for  the  honor  of  doing  it." 

"It's  his  money,  though — the  grinding  young  miser — and  may 
he  whistle  till  he  gets  it,"  said  Thurstan. 

"Oh,  yes,  you're  a  pretty  pack  of  wise  asses,  you  are,"  said 
Jacob,  bitterly.  "Money  thrown  away,  is  it  ?  You've  never  been  so 
near  to  your  fortune  in  your  life." 

"How  is  that?"  asked  the  other  five  at  once. 

"How  is  it  that  Red  Jason  has  gone  to  prison  ?  For  threatening 
Michael  Sunlocks?  Very  likely,"  said  Jacob,  with  a  curl  of  the 
lip. 

"What  then?"  said  John. 

"For  threatening  herself,"  said  Jacob.    "She  has  lied  about  it." 

"And  what  if  she  has?  Where's  our  account  in  that?"  said 
Asher. 

"Where?  Why,  with  her  husband,"  said  Jacob,  and  four  dis- 
tinct whistles  answered  him. 

"You  go  bail  Michael  Sunlocks  knows  less  than  we  know," 
Jacob  added,  "and  maybe  we  might  tell  him  something  that  would 
be  worth  a  trifle." 

"What's  that?"  asked  John. 

"That  she  loved  Red  Jason,  and  ought  to  have  married  him," 
said  Jacob ;  "but  threw  him  up  after  they  had  been  sweethearting 
together,  because  he  was  poor,  and  then  came  to  Iceland  and  mar- 
ried Michael  Sunlocks  because  he  was  rich." 

"Chut !  Numskull  again !  He'd  never  believe  you,"  said 
Thurstan. 


THE   BONDMAN  197 

"Would  he  not?"  said  Jacob,  "then  maybe  he  would  believe  his 
own  eyes.  Look  there,"  and  he  drew  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket. 

It  was  the  abandoned  letter  that  Greeba  wrote  to  Jason. 

"Isn't  he  a  boy !"  chuckled  Gentleman  John. 

Two  days  longer  they  stayed  at  Reykjavik,  and  rambled  idly 
about  the  town,  much  observed  by  the  Icelanders  and  Danes  for 
their  monkey  jackets  of  blue  Manx  cloth,  and  great  sea  boots  up 
to  their  thighs.  Early  on  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  they 
sighted,  from  the  new  embankment  where  they  stood  and  watched 
the  masons,  a  ship  coming  up  the  fiord  from  the  Smoky  Point. 
It  was  a  brig,  with  square  sails  set,  and  as  she  neared  the  port  she 
ran  up  a  flag  to  the  masthead.  The  flag  was  the  Icelandic  flag, 
the  banner  of  the  Vikings,  the  white  falcon  on  the  blue  ground, 
and  the  Fairbrothers  noticed  that  at  the  next  moment  it  was  an- 
swered by  a  like  flag  on  the  flag-staff  of  Government  House. 

"He's  coming,  he's  yonder,"  said  Jacob,  flapping  his  hands 
under  his  armpits  to  warm  them. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  saw  that  there  was  a  flutter  over  the 
smooth  surface  of  the  life  of  the  town,  and  tHat  small  groups  of 
people  were  trooping  down  to  the  jetty.  Half  an  hour  later  the 
brig  ran  into  harbor,  dropped  anchor  below  the  lava  reef,  and  sent 
its  small  boat  ashore.  Three  men  sat  in  the  boat;  the  two  sailors 
who  rowed,  and  a  gentleman  who  sat  on  the  seat  between  them. 
The  gentleman  was  young,  flaxen-haired,  tall,  slight,  with  a  strong 
yet  winsome  face,  and  clad  in  a  squirrel-skin  coat  and  close-fitting 
squirrel-skin  cap.  When  the  boat  grounded  by  the  jetty  he  leaped 
ashore  with  a  light  spring,  smiled  and  nodded  to  the  many  who 
touched  their  hats  to  him,  hailed  others  with  a  hearty  word,  and  then 
swung  into  the  saddle  of  a  horse  that  stood  waiting  for  him,  and 
rode  away  at  an  eager  trot  in  the  direction  of  Government  House. 

It  was  Michael  Sunlocks. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE     PARDON 

WHEN  the  men  whom  Michael  Sunlocks  sent  into  the  interior 
after  Adam  Fairbrother  and  his  shipwrecked  company  returned  to 
him  empty-handed,  he  perceived  that  they  had  gone  astray  by 
crossing  a  great  fiord  lying  far  east  of  Hekla  when  they  should  have 
followed  the  course  of  it  down  to  the  sea.  So,  counting  the  time 
that  had  been  wasted,  he  concluded  to  take  ship  to  a  point  of  the 


198  THE   BONDMAN 

southern  coast  in  the  latitude  of  the  Westmann  Islands,  thinking 
to  meet  old  Adam  somewhere  by  the  fiord's  mouth.  The  storm  de- 
layed him,  and  he  reached  the  fiord  too  late ;  but  he  came  upon 
some  good  news  of  Adam  there:  that,  all  well,  though  sore  beset 
by  the  hard  weather,  and  enfeebled  by  the  misfortunes  that  had  be- 
fallen them,  the  little  band  of  ship-broken  men  had,  three  days 
before  his  own  coming,  passed  up  the  western  bank  of  the  fiord 
on  foot,  going  slowly  and  heavily  laden,  but  under  the  safe  charge 
of  a  guide  from  Stappen. 

Greatly  cheered  in  heart  at  these  good  tidings  Michael  Sun- 
locks  had  ordered  a  quick  return,  for  it  was  unsafe,  and  perhaps 
impossible,  to  follow  up  through  the  narrow  chasms  of  the  fiord 
in  a  ship  under  sail.  On  getting  back  to  Reykjavik  he  intended  to 
take  ponies  across  country  in  the  direction  of  Thingvellir,  hoping 
to  come  upon  old  Adam  and  his  people  before  they  reached  the 
lake  or  the  great  chasm  on  the  western  side  of  the  valley,  known 
as  the  Chasm  of  All  Men. 

And  thinking,  amid  the  flutter  of  joyful  emotions,  that  on  the 
overland  journey  he  would  surely  take  Greeba  with  him,  for  he 
could  never  bear  to  be  so  long  parted  from  her  again,  all  his  heart 
went  back  to  her  in  sweet  visions  as  his  ship  sped  over  the  sea. 
Her  beauty,  her  gentleness,  her  boldness,  her  playful  spirits,  and 
all  her  simple  loving  ways  came  flowing  over  him  wave  after  wave, 
and  then  in  one  great  swelling  flood.  And  in  the  night  watches, 
looking  over  the  dark  waters,  and  hearing  nothing  but  their  deep 
moan,  he  could  scarce  believe  his  fortune,  being  so  far  away  from 
the  sight  of  her  light  figure,  and  from  the  hearing  of  her  sweet 
voice,  that  she  was  his — his  love,  his  wife,  his  darling.  A  hundred 
tender  names  he  would  call  her  then,  having  no  ear  to  hear  him  but 
the  melancholy  waves,  no  tongue  to  echo  him  but  the  wailing  wind, 
and  no  eye  to  look  upon  him  but  the  eye  of  night. 

And  many  a  time  on  that  homeward  voyage,  while  the  sails  bel- 
lowed out  to  the  fair  breeze  that  was  carrying  him  to  her,  he 
asked  himself  however  he  had  been  able  to  live  so  long  without 
her,  and  whether  he  could  live  without  her  now  if  evil  chance 
plunged  his  great  happiness  into  greater  grief.  Thinking  so,  he 
recalled  the  day  of  her  coming,  and  the  message  he  got  from  the 
ship  in  the  harbor  saying  she  had  come  before  her  time,  and  how  he 
had  hastened  down,  and  into  the  boat,  and  across  the  bay,  and 
aboard,  with  a  secret  trembling  lest  the  years  might  have  so  changed 
her  as  to  take  something  from  her  beauty,  or  her  sweetness,  or  her 
goodness,  or  yet  the  bounding  playfulness  that  was  half  the  true 
girl's  charm.  But  oh,  the  delicious  undeceiving  of  that  day,  when, 


THE   BONDMAN  199 

coming  face  to  face  with  her  again,  he  saw  the  rosy  tint  in  her 
cheek  and  the  little  delicate  dimple  sucked  into  it  when  she  smiled, 
and  the  light  footstep,  and  the  grace  of  motion,  and  the  swelling 
throat,  and  the  heaving  bosom  and  the  quivering  lids  over  the  most 
glorious  eyes  that  ever  shone  upon  this  earth !  So,  at  least,  it  had 
seemed  to  him  then,  and  still  it  seemed  so  as  his  ship  sailed  home. 

At  Smoky  Point  they  lay  off  an  hour  or  two  to  take  in  letters 
for  the  capital,  and  there  intelligence  had  come  aboard  of  the 
arrest,  trial,  and  condemnation  of  Jason  for  his  design  and  attempt 
upon  the  life  of  the  President.  Michael  Sunlocks  had  been  greatly 
startled  and  deeply  moved  by  the  news,  and  called  on  the  master  to 
weigh  the  anchor  without  more  delay  than  was  necessary,  because 
he  had  now  a  double  reason  for  wishing  to  be  back  in  Reykjavik. 

And  being  at  length  landed  there  he  galloped  up  to  Government 
House,  bounded  indoors  with  the  thought  of  his  soul  speaking  out 
of  his  eyes,  and  found  Greeba  there  and  every  one  of  his  sweetest 
visions  realized.  All  his  hundred  tender,  foolish,  delicious  names 
he  called  her  over  again,  but  with  better  ears  to  hear  them,  while 
he  enfolded  her  in  his  arms,  with  both  her  own  about  his  neck,  and 
her  beautiful  head  nestling  close  over  his  heart,  and  her  fluttering 
breast  against  his  breast. 

"Dearest,"  he  whispered,  "my  darling,  love  of  my  life,  how 
ever  could  I  leave  you  so  long?" 

"Michael,"  she  whispered  back,  "if  you  say  any  more  I  shall 
be  crying." 

But  the  words  were  half  smothered  by  sobs,  for  she  was  crying 
already.  Seeing  this,  he  sheered  off  on  another  tack,  telling  her  of 
his  mission  in  search  of  her  father,  and  that  if  he  had  not  brought 
the  good  man  back,  at  least  he  had  brought  good  news  of  him, 
and  saying  that  they  were  both  to  start  to-morrow  for  Thingvellir 
with  the  certainty  of  meeting  him  and  bringing  him  home  with 
great  rejoicings. 

"And  now,  my  love,  I  have  a  world  of  things  to  attend  to  before 
I  can  go,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks,  "and  you  have  to  prepare  for 
two  days  in  the  saddle  over  the  snow." 

Greeba  had  been  smiling  through  the  big  drops  that  floated  in 
her  eyes,  but  she  grew  solemn  again,  and  said: 

"Ah,  Michael,  you  can  not  think  what  trouble  we  have  all  had 
while  you  have  been  away." 

"I  know  it— I  know  it  all,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks,  "so  say  no 
more  about  it,  but  away  to  your  room,  my  darling." 

With  that  he  rang  a  hand-bell  that  stood  on  the  table,  and 
Oscar,  his  servant,  answered  the  call. 


200  THE   BONDMAN 

"Go  across  to  the  jail,"  he  said,  "and  tell  Jon  that  his  prisoner 
is  not  to  be  removed  until  he  has  had  orders  from  me." 

"What  prisoner,  your  Excellency?"  said  Oscar. 

"The  prisoner  known  as  Jason,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"He's  gone,  your  Excellency,"  cried  Oscar. 

"Gone?" 

"I  mean  to  the  Sulphur  Mines,  your  Excellency." 

"When  was  he  sent?" 

"Yesterday  morning,  at  daybreak,  your  Excellency." 

Michael  Sunlocks  sat  at  a  table  and  wrote  a  few  lines,  and 
handed  them  to  his  man,  saying:  "Then  take  this  to  the  Lagmann, 
and  say  I  shall  wait  here  until  he  comes." 

While  this  was  going  forward  Greeba  had  been  standing  by 
the  door  with  a  troubled  look,  and  when  Oscar  was  gone  from  the 
room  she  returned  to  her  husband's  side,  and  said,  with  great  grav- 
ity, "Michael,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  that  man?" 

But  Michael  Sunlocks  only  waved  his  hand,  and  said,  "Nay, 
now,  darling,  you  shall  not  trouble  about  this  matter  any  more. 
It  is  my  affair,  and  it  is  for  me  to  see  to  it." 

"But  he  has  threatened  your  life,"  cried  Greeba. 

"Now,  love,  what  did  I  say?"  said  Michael  Sunlocks,  with  up- 
lifted finger  and  a  pretense  at  reproof.  "You've  fretted  over  this 
foolish  thing  too  long;  so  think  no  more  about  it,  and  go  to  your 
room." 

She  turned  to  obey. 

"And,  darling,"  he  cried  in  another  voice,  as  she  was  slowly 
going,  "that  I  may  seem  to  have  you  with  me  all  the  same,  just 
sing  something,  and  I  shall  hear  you  while  I  work.  Will  you? 
There !"  he  cried,  and  laughed  before  she  had  time  to  answer.  "See 
what  a  goose  you  have  made  of  me !" 

She  came  back,  and  for  reply  she  kissed  his  forehead,  and  he 
put  his  lips  to  her  lovely  hand.  Then,  with  a  great  lump  in  her 
throat,  and  the  big  drops  rolling  from  her  eyes  to  her  cheeks,  she 
left  him  to  the  work  she  sorely  feared. 

And  being  alone,  and  the  candles  lighted  and  the  blinds  drawn 
down,  for  night  had  now  fallen  in,  he  sat  at  the  table  to  read  the 
mass  of  letters  that  had  gathered  in  his  absence.  There  was  no 
communication  of  any  kind  from  the  Government  at  Copenhagen, 
and  satisfying  himself  on  this  point,  and  thinking  for  the  fiftieth 
time  that  surely  Denmark  intended,  as  she  ought,  to  leave  the  peo- 
ple of  world-old  Iceland  to  govern  themselves,  he  turned  with  a 
sigh  of  relief  to  the  strange,  bewildering,  humorous,  pathetic  hodge- 
podge of  petitions,  complaints,  requests,  demands,  and  threats  that 


THE   BONDMAN  201 

came  from  every  quarter  of  the  island  itself.  And  while  he  laughed 
and  looked  grave,  and  muttered,  and  made  louder  exclamations 
over  these,  as  one  by  one  they  passed  under  his  eye,  suddenly  the 
notes  of  a  harpsichord,  followed  shortly  by  the  sweeter  notes  of  a 
sweet  voice,  came  to  him  from  another  room,  and  with  the  tip  of 
his  pen  to  his  lips,  he  dropped  back  in  his  chair  to  listen. 
"My  own  song,"  he  thought,  and  his  eyelids  quivered. 

"Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine. 
Oh,  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  ask  for  wine; 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 
Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 


But  mi 


ght  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup 
nld  not  change  for  thine." 


I  would  not  c 

It  was  Greeba  singing  to  him  as  he  had  bidden  her. 

"God  bless  her,"  he  thought  again  in  the  silence  that  followed. 

Ah,  little  did  he  think  as  he  listened  to  her  song  that  the  eyes 
of  the  singer  were  wet,  and  that  her  heart  was  eating  itself  out 
with  fears. 

"What  have  I  done  to  deserve  such  happiness?"  he  asked  him- 
self. But  just  as  it  happens  that  at  the  moment  when  our  passion- 
ate joy  becomes  conscious  of  itself  we  find  some  dark  misgivings 
creep  over  us  of  evil  about  to  befall,  so  the  bounding  gladsomeness 
of  Michael  Sunlocks  was  followed  by  a  chill  dread  that  he  tried  to 
put  aside  and  could  not. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  the  Lagmann  entered  the  room. 
He  was  very  tall  and  slight,  and  had  a  large  head  that  drooped  like 
daffodil.  His  dress  was  poor,  he  was  short-sighted,  growing  elderly, 
and  silent  of  manner.  Nothing  in  his  appearance  or  bearing  would 
have  suggested  that  he  had  any  pride  of  his  place  as  Judge  of  the 
island.  He  was  a  bookworm,  a  student,  a  scholar,  and  learned  in 
the  old  sagas  and  eddas. 

"Lagmann,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks,  with  simple  deference.  "I 
have  sent  for  you  on  a  subject  of  some  moment  to  myself." 

"Name  it !"  said  the  Judge. 

"During  my  absence  a  man  has  been  tried  and  condemned  by 
the  Bishop's  court  for  threatening  my  life,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"Jason,  the  son  of  Stephen  Orry  and  Rachel,  daughter  of  the 
late  Governor-General  Jorgensen,"  said  the  Judge. 

"That  is  he,  and  I  want  you  to  give  me  an  opinion  respecting 
him,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"Gladly,"  said  the  Judge. 

"He  was  sent  to  the  Sulphur  Mines,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 


202  THE   BONDMAN 

"For  six  months,  certain,"  said  the  Judge. 

"Can  we  recall  him,  and  have  him  tried  afresh  by  the  Court  of 
the  Quarter  or  the  High  Court  of  Justice  ?"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"Too  late  for  that,"  said  the  Judge.  "A  higher  court,  if  it  had 
condemned  at  all,  might  certainly  have  given  him  a  longer  pun- 
ishment; but  his  sentence  of  six  months  is  coupled  with  a  con- 
dition that  he  shall  hereafter  take  an  oath  of  peace  toward  you. 
So  have  no  fear  of  him." 

"I  have  none  at  all,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks,  "as  my  next  ques- 
tion will  show." 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  Judge. 

"Can  I  pardon  him?"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

For  a  moment  the  Lagmann  was  startled  out  of  his  placid  man- 
ner, but  recovering  his  composure  he  answered,  "Yes,  a  President 
has  sovereign  powers  of  pardon." 

"Then,  Lagmann,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks,  "will  you  see  the 
needful  papers  drawn  for  my  signature?" 

"Surely,"  said  the  Judge.  "But,  first,  will  you  pardon  me?" 
he  added,  with  a  shadow  of  a  smile. 

"Say  what  you  please,  Lagmann,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"It  is  possible  that  you  do  not  yet  know  the  nature  of  the  evi- 
dence given  at  the  trial,"  said  the  Judge. 

"I  think  I  do,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"That  this  man  claims  to  be  your  half-brother?" 

"He  is  my  brother." 

"That  he  thinks  you  have  stood  in  his  place?" 

"I  have  stood  in  his  place." 

That  he  is  jealous  of  you,  and  in  his  madness  has  vowed  to 
slay  you  ?" 

"His  jealousy  is  natural,  and  his  vow  I  do  not  dread." 

The  cold-mannered  Lagmann  paused  a  moment,  wiped  his  short- 
sighted eyes  with  his  red  print  handkerchief,  and  then  said  in  a 
husky  voice:  "This  is  very  noble  of  you.  I'll  go  at  once  for  the 
document." 

He  had  only  just  gone  from  the  room  when  Greeba  returned  to 
it.  She  had  tried  too  long  to  conquer  her  agitation  and  could  not, 
and  now  with  wide  eyes  and  a  look  of  fear  in  them  she  hastened 
back  to  her  husband  the  moment  the  Lagmann  had  left  him. 

"Michael,"  she  cried,  "what  has  the  Lagmann  gone  for?" 

"For  a  form  of  pardon,"  he  answered. 

"Pardon  for  that  man  ?"  she  asked. 

"Even  so,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  promised  to  sign  it." 

"Oh,  Michael,  my  love — my  dear,  kind  Michael !"  she  cried  in 


.  THE    BONDMAN  203 

a  pitiful  voice  of  entreaty,  "don't  do  it,  don't,  I  pray  of  you — don't 
bring  that  man  back." 

"Why,  Greeba,  what  is  this?"  said  Michael  Sunlocks.  "What 
is  it  troubles  my  little  woman?" 

"Dear  Michael,"  she  cried  once  more,  "for  your  own  sake  think 
again  before  you  sign  that  pardon." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  said  he,  "my  darling  has  been  all  unstrung  by  this 
ugly  business.  Yes,  and  now  I  remember  what  they  told  me  down 
at  Smoky  Point.  It  was  my  love  herself  that  gave  the  poor  lad  up 
to  justice.  That  was  very  brave  of  my  darling;  for  her  husband, 
bless  her  dear  heart,  was  before  all  the  world  to  her.  Ah,  yes,  I 
know  that  all  her  love  is  mine,  her  love  is  first  and  last  with  her 
as  with  all  warm  natures.  But  she  must  not  fear  for  me.  No,  she 
must  not  worry,  but  go  back,  like  a  dear  soul,  and  leave  this  matter 
to  me." 

"Michael,  my  dear,  noble  Michael,  I  have  something  to  say; 
will  you  not  hear  me?" 

"No,  no,  no,"  he  answered. 

"Not  for  a  moment  ?    I  have  set  my  heart  on  telling  you." 

"Not  for  one  little  moment.  But  if  you  have  set  your  heart 
on  anything  else,  then,  my  darling,  just  think  of  it  double,  what- 
ever it  is,  and  it  is  yours  already." 

"But  why  may  I  not  speak  of  this  pardon?" 

"Because,  though  I  have  never  yet  set  eyes  upon  this  poor  man 
I  know  more  about  him  than  my  darling  can  ever  know,  and 
because  it  is  natural  that  her  sweet  little  heart  that  is  as  brave  as 
a  lion  for  herself  but  as  timid  as  a  fawn  for  me,  should  exaggerate 
my  peril.  So  now,  no  more  words  about  it,  but  go,  go." 

She  was  about  to  obey  when  the  maid  came  to  say  that  dinner 
was  ready.  And  then  with'  a  little  sKout  of  joy  Michael  Sunlocks 
threw  down  his  papers,  encircled  His  arm  about  Greeba's  waist, 
and  drew  her  along  laughing,  with"  Her  smiles  fighting  tfieir  way 
through  her  tears. 

During  the  dinner  He  talke'd  constantly  of  tHe  dangers  an'd  trials 
and  amusing  mischances  of  his  voyage,  laughing  at  them  all  now 
that  they  were  over,  and  laughing  at  Greeba.  too,  for  tHe  woful 
face  with  which  she  heard  of  tHem.  A'n'd  when  they  rose  from 
the  table  he  called  on  her  for  anotHer  song,  and  sHe  sat  at  tHe 
harpsichord  and  sang,  though  something  was  swelling  in  Her  throat 
and  often  her  heart  was  in  her  moutfi.  But  He  recked  nothing  of 
this,  and  only  laughed  when  Her  sweet  voice  failed  Her,  an'd  filled 
up  tfie  breaks  witK  His  own  ricK  tones. 

In  the  midst  of- the  singing  tHe  maid  came  in  and  said  something 


204  THE   BONDMAN 

which  Michael  Sunlocks  did  not  catch,  for  it  was  drowned  to  his 
ear  by  the  gladsome  uproar  that  he  himself  was  making;  but 
Greeba  heard  it  and  stopped  playing,  and  presently  the  Lagmann 
entered  the  room. 

"A  good  thing  is  no  worse  for  being  done  betimes,"  said  the 
Judge,  "so  here  is  the  pardon  ready  to  your  hand  for  signature." 

And  with  that  he  handed  a  paper  to  Michael  Sunlocks,  who  said 
with  cheer,  "You're  right,  Lagmann,  you're  right;  and  my  wife 
will  give  you  a  glass  of  wine  while  I  write  you  my  name." 

"A  cup  of  coffee,  if  you  are  taking  it,"  said  the  Judge,  with  a 
bow  to  Greeba,  who  saw  nothing  of  it,  for  her  eyes  were  following 
her  husband. 

"Michael,"  she  said,  "I  beseech  you  not  to  sign  that  paper. 
Only  give  way  to  me  this  once;  I  have  never  asked  you  before, 
and  I  will  never  ask  you  again.  I  am  in  earnest,  Michael  dear, 
and  if  you  will  not  yield  to  me  for  your  own  sake,  yield  to  me  for 
mine." 

"How  is  this?  How  grave  we  are!"  said  Michael  Sunlocks, 
pausing  with  pen  in  hand. 

"I  know  I  have  no  right  to  meddle  in  such  matters,  but,  dear 
Michael,  don't  sign  that  pardon — don't  bring  that  man  back.  I 
beseech  you,  I  beg  of  you." 

"This  is  very  strange,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"It  is  also  very  simple,"  said  the  Judge,  bringing  his  red  hand- 
kerchief up  to  his  dim  eyes  again. 

"What!"  said  Michael  Sunlocks.  "Greeba,  you  do  not  know 
this  man — this  Jason?" 

Greeba  hesitated  a  moment,  and  glanced  at  the  Lagmann. 

"You  don't  know  him?"  repeated  Michael  Sunlocks. 

She  was  sorely  tempted,  and  she  fell.  "For  my  husband's  sake," 
she  thought,  and  then  with  a  prayer  for  pardon  she  lifted  her  head 
and  said  falteringly,  "No,  no— why  no,  of  course  not." 

Michael  Sunlocks  was  satisfied.  "'Why  no,  of  course  not/" 
he  echoed,  laughing  a  little,  and  tKen  Ke  dipped  his  quill  in  the 
ink-horn. 

"But  I  beseech*  you  again,  do  not  bring  that  man  back,"  she 
cried. 

THere  was  a  painful  pause,  and.  to  cover  it,  the  Lagmann  said : 
"Your  husband  is  a  brave-hearted  man,  who  does  not  know  the 
name  of  fear." 

And  then  Micfiael  Sunlocks  said :  "I  will  ask  your  pardon,  Lag- 
mann, while  I  step  into  the  next  room  with  my  wife.  I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  Her.  Come,  Greeba,  come.  I'll  leave  the  document 


THE   BONDMAN  205 

with  you  for  the  present,  Lagmann,"  he  added  over  his  shoulder 
as  he  passed  out.  Greeba  walked  beside  him  with  downcast  eyes, 
like  a  guilty  thing  condemned. 

"Now,  love,"  he  said,  when  they  were  alone,  "it  is  sweet  and 
beautiful  of  you  to  think  so  much  of  me,  but  there  is  something  that 
you  do  not  know,  and  I  ought  to  tell  you.  Maybe  I  hinted  at  it  in 
my  letter,  but  there  has  never  been  a  chance  to  explain.  Have 
you  heard  that  this  Jason  is  my  brother?" 

"Yes,"  said  Greeba,  faintly. 

"It  is  true,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks.  "And  you  know  that  when 
I  first  came  to  Iceland  it  was  not  to  join  the  Latin  school,  but  on 
an  errand  of  mercy?" 

"Yes,"  said  Greeba. 

"Well,  the  first  of  my  duties  was  to  find  Jason's  mother,  and 
the  next,  was  to  find  Jason  himself." 

"Jason !"  cried  Greeba. 

"Yes,  it  was  my  father  who  sent  me,  for  they  had  suffered 
much  through  his  great  fault,  God  forgive  him !  and  I  was  to  suc- 
cor them  in  their  distress.  You  know  what  followed?" 

"Yes,"  said  Greeba,  softly. 

"I  came  too  late  for  the  mother;  the  good  woman  was  in  her 
grave.  I  could  not  light  upon  her  son,  and  lent  an  ear  to  the  idle 
story  that  he  was  dead  also.  My  search  ceased,  my  zeal  flagged, 
and,  putting  aside  the  solemn  promise  I  made  my  father,  I  went  on 
with  my  own  affairs.  But  I  never  believed  that  he  was  dead,  and 
I  felt  I  should  live  to  meet  with  him  yet." 

"Oh!  oh!"  cried  Greeba. 

"And  many  a  time  since  my  conscience  has  reproached  me  with 
a  mission  unfulfilled;  and,  awakening  from  many  a  dream  of  the 
hour  and  the  place  wherein  I  pledged  my  word  to  him  that  died 
trusting  me,  loving  me,  doting  on  me — heaven  pity  him,  bad  man 
though  he  was — as  never  a  son  was  loved  by  a  father  before,  it  has 
not  appeased  me  to  say  to  myself,  'Michael,  while  you  are  here, 
given  up  to  your  ambitions,  he  is  there  amid  the  perils  and  hard- 
ships of  the  sea,  and  he  is  your  brother,  and  the  only  kinsman  left 
to  you  in  the  wide  world.'  " 

Greeba  was  sobbing  by  this  time 

"And  now,  my  darling,  you  know  all,  and  why  I  wish  to  sign 
this  pardon.  Could  I  ever  know  a  moment's  happiness  with  my 
brother  slaving  like  a  beast  at  yonder  mines !  What  if  he  is 
jealous  of  me,  and  if  his  jealousy  had  driven  him  to  madness ! 
There  is  a  sense  in  which  he  is  right.  But,  whether  right  or  wrong, 
mad  or  sane,  he  shall  not  be  punished  for  my  sake.  So,  dearest 


206  THE   BONDMAN 

love,  my  darling,  dry  your  beautiful  eyes,  and  let  me  ease  my  con- 
science the  only  way  I  may,  for  I  have  no  fear,  and  my  wife  must 
have  none." 

"Sunlocks,"  said  Greeba,  "you  have  made  me  ashamed.  I  am 
no  fit  wife  for  a  man  like  you.  I  am  too  little-hearted.  Oh,  why 
did  I  ever  come?  Why?  Why?"  And  she  wept  as  if  her  heart 
would  break.  He  comforted  her  with  tender  protests,  enfolding  her  in 
his  arms  and  caressing  her  lovely  head. 

"Tell  me,"  he  whispered,  "nay,  there,  hide  your  face  in  my 
breast.  There,  there,  tell  me  now — tell  me  all." 

"Sunlocks,"  she  said,  drawing  back,  "I  have  lied  to  you." 

"Lied?" 

"When  I  told  you  I  had  not  known  Jason  I  told  you  what  was 
false." 

"Then  you  have  known  him?" 

"Yes,  I  knew  him  in  the  Isle  of  Man." 

"The  Isle  of  Man  ?" 

"He  lived  there  nearly  five  years." 

"All  the  time  he  was  away?" 

"Yes,  he  landed  the  night  you  sailed.  You  crossed  him  on  the 
sea." 

"Greeba,  why  did  he  go  there  ?    Yet  how  should  you  know  ?" 

"I  do  know,  Michael — it  was  to  fulfil  his  vow — his  vow  that  the 
old  priest  spoke  of  in  court — his  wicked  vow  of  vengeance." 

"On    my   father?" 

"On  your  father  and  on  you." 

"God  in  heaven!"  cried  Michael  Sunlocks,  with  great  awe. 
"And  that  very  night  my  father  was  saved  from  his  own  son  by 
death." 

"It  was  he  who  saved  your  father  from  the  sea." 

"Wait,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks;  "did  you  know  of  this  vow  be- 
fore you  accused  him  of  an  attempt  upon  me  ?" 

Greeba  caught  her  breath,  and  answered,  "Yes." 

"Did  you  know  of  it  while  you  were  still  in  the  Isle  of  Man  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  again,  more  faintly. 

"Did  he  tell  you?" 

"Yes,  and  he  bound  me  by  a  promise  never  to  speak  of  it,  but 
I  could  not  keep  it  from  my  own  husband." 

"That's  strange,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks,  with  a  look  of  pain. 
"To  share  a  secret  like  that  with  you  was  very  strange,"  he  added. 

Greeba  was  flurried,  and  said  again,  too  bewildered  to  see  which 
way  her  words  were  tending.  "And  he  gave  me  his  promise  in 
return  to  put  aside  his  sinful  purpose." 


THE   BONDMAN  207 

"That's  still  stranger,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks.  "Greeba,"  he 
added,  in  another  tone,  "why  should  you  say  you  did  not  know 
Jason  ?" 

"Because  the  Lagmann  was  with  us." 

"But  why,  my  girl?     Why?" 

"Lest  evil  rumors  might  dishonor  my  husband." 

"But  where  was  the  dishonor  to  me  in  my  wife  knowing  this 
poor  lad,  Greeba?" 

At  that  she  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  in  a  tone  of  gentle  re- 
proof she  said,  nestling  close  to  him  and  caressing  his  sleeve, 
"Michael,  why  do  you  ask  such  questions  ?" 

But  he  did  not  turn  aside  for  that,  but  looked  searchingly  into 
her  face,  and  said :  "He  was  nothing  to  you,  was  he  ?" 

She  hesitated  again,  and  then  tried  to  laugh,  "Why,  what  should 
he  be  to  me?"  she  said. 

He  did  not  flinch,  but  repeated,  "He  was  nothing  to  you  then  ?" 

"Nobody  save  my  husband  has  ever  been  anything  to  me,"  she 
said,  with  a  caress. 

"He  was  nothing  to  you — no?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  throwing  back  her  head. 

Just  then  the  English  maid  came  to  say  that  the  six  big  English- 
men who  had  been  there  before  were  in  the  kitchen  again,  and  ask- 
ing to  see  her  master,  not  her  mistress,  this  time.  In  an  instant 
Greeba's  little  burst  of  disdain  was  spent,  and  she  was  all  humility 
and  entreaty. 

"Don't  go  to  them,"  she  cried.    "Don't  listen  to  them." 

"Who  are  they?"  he  asked. 

"My  brothers.  I  have  not  had  time  to  tell  you,  but  I  will  tell 
you  now." 

She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  as  if  to  hold  him. 

"What  have  they  come  for?" 

"To  tell  you  some  falsehood,  and  so  revenge  themselves  on  me. 
I  know  it,  I  feel  it.  Ah,  a  woman's  instinct  is  sure.  But,  dear 
Michael,  you  will  not  receive  them.  Refuse,  and  I  will  tell  you  such 
a  story.  And  you  will  laugh — " 

"Let  me  go,  Greeba,"  he  said,  loosening  the  grip  of  her  tighten- 
ing arms,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  gone  from  the  room.  Then 
all  the  spirit  of  the  woman  arose  in  Greeba,  and,  throwing  aside  her 
vague  fears,  she  resolved,  as  only  a  woman  could,  in  the  cruel  hour 
when  a  dear  heart  seemed  to  be  slipping  away  from  tier,  that,  come 
what  would,  she  should  hold  to  her  husband  at  all  hazards,  and  that 
whatever  her  brothers  might  say  against  her,  let  it  be  true  or 
false,  if  it  threatened  to  separate  her  from  him,  she  must  deny  it. 


208  THE   BONDMAN 

What  matter  about  the  truth?  Her  love  was  before  everything. 
And  who  was  to  disprove  her  word?  Jason  alone  could  do  so, 
and  his  tongue  was  sealed  forever  in  a  silence  as  deep  as  the 
grave's. 

Michael  Sunlocks  went  out  of  the  room  like  a  man  in  a  dream : 
an  ugly  dream,  a  dream  of  darkening  terrors  undefined.  He  came 
back  to  it  like  one  who  has  awakened  to  find  that  his  dream  has  come 
true.  Within  an  hour  his  face  seemed  to  have  grown  old.  He 
stooped,  he  stumbled  on  the  floor,  his  limbs  shook  under  him,  he  was 
a  broken  and  sorrowful  man.  At  sight  of  him  Greeba  could  scarcely 
restrain  an  impulse  to  scream.  She  ran  to  him,  and  cried,  "Michael, 
husband,  what  have  they  told  you?" 

At  first  he  looked  stupidly  into  her  quivering  face,  and  then 
glancing  down  at  a  paper  he  held  in  one  hand  he  made  an  effort 
to  conceal  it  behind  him.  She  was  too  quick  for  him,  and  cried, 
"What  is  it?  Show  it  me." 

"It's  nothing,"  he  said;  "nothing,  love,  nothing — " 

"What  have  they  told  you  ?"  she  said  again,  "tell  me — tell  me." 

"They  say  that  you  loved  Jason,"  he  answered  with  a  great 
effort. 

"It's  a  lie,"  she  cried  stoutly. 

"They  say  that  you  were  to  marry  him." 

She  tried  to  answer  as  stoutly  as  before,  "And  that's  a  lie,  too," 
but  the  words  stuck  in  her  throat. 

"Oh !  God,"  he  cried,  and  turned  away  from  her. 

There  was  a  stove  in  the  room,  and  he  stepped  up  to  it,  opened 
the  iron  door,  and  thrust  the  paper  into  the  crackling  fire. 

"What  is  that  you  are  burning?"  she  cried.  And  in  another 
moment,  before  he  knew  what  she  was  doing,  she  had  run  to  the 
stove,  pulled  back  with  her  bare  hands  the  hot  door  that  he  was 
closing  with  the  tongs,  thrust  her  arm  into  the  fire,  and  brought  out 
the  paper.  It  was  in  flames,  and  she  rolled  it  in  her  palms  until 
little  but  its  charred  remains  lay-in  her  scorched  fingers.  But  she 
saw  what  it  had  been — her  own  abandoned  letter  to  Red  Jason. 
Then,  slowly  looking  up,  she  turned  back  to  her  husband,  pale,  a 
fearful  chill  creeping  over  her,  and  he  had  thrown  himself  down 
on  a  chair  by  the  table  and  hidden  his  face  in  his  arms. 

It  was  a  pitiful  and  moving  sight.  To  see  that  man,  so  full 
of  hope  and  love  and  simple  happy  trust  a  little  hour  ago,  lie  there 
with  bent  head  and  buried  eyes,  and  hands  clasped  together  con- 
vulsively, because  the  idol  he  had  set  up  for  himself  lay  broken 
before  him,  because  the  love  wherein  he  lived  lay  dead ;  and  to  see 
that  woman,  so  beautiful,  and  in  heart  so  true,  though  dogged  by 


THE   BONDMAN  209 

the  malice  of  evil  chance,  though  weak  as  a  true  woman  may  be, 
stand  over  him  with  whitening  lips  and  not  a  word  to  utter — to  see 
this  was  to  say,  "What  devil  of  hell  weaves  the  web  of  circum- 
stance in  this  world  of  God?" 

Then,  with  a  cry  of  love  and  pain  in  one,  she  flung  herself  on 
her  knees  beside  him,  and  enfolded  him  in  her  arms.  "Michael," 
she  said,  "my  love,  my  darling,  my  dear  kind  husband,  forgive  me, 
and  let  me  confess  everything.  It  is  true  that  I  was  to  have  mar- 
ried Jason,  but  it  is  not  true  that  I  loved  him.  I  esteemed  him, 
for  he  is  of  a  manly,  noble  soul,  and  after  the  departure  of  my 
father  and  the  death  of  my  mother,  and  amid  the  cruelties  of  my 
brothers  and  your  own  long,  long  silence,  I  thought  to  reward  him 
for  his  great  fidelity.  But  I  loved  you,  you  only,  only  you,  dear 
Michael,  and  when  your  letter  reached  me  at  last  I  asked  him 
to  release  me  that  I  might  come  to  you,  and  he  did  so,  and  I  came. 
This  is  the  truth,  dear  Michael,  as  sure  as  we  shall  meet  before 
God  some  day." 

Michael  Sunlocks  lifted  his  face  and  said,  "Why  did  you  not 
tell  me  this  long  ago,  Greeba,  and  not  now  when  it  is  dragged  from 
you  ?" 

She  did  not  answer  him,  for  to  be  met  with  such  a  question  after 
a  plea  so  abject,  stung  her  to  the  quick.  "Do  you  not  believe  I've 
told  you  the  truth?"  she  asked. 

"God  knows ;  I  know  not  what  to  believe,"  he  answered. 

"Do  you  rather  trust  my  brothers,  who  have  deceived  you?" 
she  said. 

"So,  Heaven  help  me !  has  my  wife,  whom  I  have  loved  so  dear." 

At  that  she  drew  herself  up.  "Michael,"  she  said,  "what  lie 
have  these  men  told  you?  Don't  keep  it  from  me.  What  have  I 
done  ?" 

"Married  me,  while  loving  him,"  he  answered.  "That's  enough 
for  me,  God  pity  me !" 

"Do  you  believe  that?"  she  said. 

"Your  concealments,  your  deceptions,  your  subterfuges  all  prove 
it,"  he  said.  "Oh,  it  is  killing  me,  for  it  is  the  truth." 

"So  you  believe  that?"  she  said. 

"If  I  had  not  written  you  would  now  be  Jason's  wife,"  he 
said.  "And  by  this  light  I  see  his  imprisonment.  It  was  you  who 
accused  him  of  a  design  upon  my  life.  Why?  Because  you  knew 
what  he  had  confessed  to  you.  For  your  own  ends  you  used  his 
oath  against  him,  knowing  he  could  not  deny  it.  And  what  was 
your  purpose?  To  put  him  away.  Why?  Because  he  was  pur- 
suing you  for  deserting  him.  But  you  made  his  vow  your  excuse, 


210  THE   BONDMAN 

and  the  brave  lad  said  nothing.  No,  not  a  word ;  and  yet  he  might 
have  dishonored  you  before  them  all.  And  when  I  wished  to  sign 
his  pardon  you  tried  to  prevent  me.  Was  that  for  my  sake?  No, 
but  yours.  Was  it  my  life  you  thought  to  protect?  No,  but  your 
own  secret." 

Thus,  in  the  agony  of  his  tortured  heart,  the  hot  hard  words 
came  from  him  in  a  torrent,  but  before  the  flood  of  them  was  spent, 
Greeba  stepped  up  to  him  with  flashing 'eyes,  and  all  the  wrath  in 
her  heart  that  comes  of  outraged  love,  and  cried: 

"It  is  false.  It  is  false,  I  say.  Send  for  him  and  he  himself 
will  deny  it.  I  can  trust  him,  for  he  is  of  a  noble  soul.  Yes,  he  is 
a  man  indeed.  I  challenge  you  to  send  for  him.  Let  him  come 
here.  Bring  him  before  me,  and  he  shall  judge  between  us." 

"No,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks,  "I  will  not  send  for  him.  For 
what  you  have  done  he  shall  suffer." 

Then  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  after  a  pause  the  Lag- 
mann  entered,  with  his  stoop  and  uncertain  glance.  "Excuse  me," 
he  said,  "will  you  sign  the  pardon  now,  or  leave  it  until  the 
morning?" 

"I  will  not  sign  it  at  all,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks.  But  at  the 
next  moment  he  cried :  "Wait !  after  all  it  is  not  the  man's  fault, 
and  he  shall  not  suffer."  With  that  he  took  the  paper  out  of  the 
law-man's  hand  and  signed  it  hurriedly.  "Here,"  he  said,  "see  that 
the  man  is  set  free  immediately." 

The  Lagmann  looked  at  both  of  them  out  of  his  near-sighted 
eyes,  coughed  slightly,  and  left  the  room  without  a  word  more. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE    PRESIDENT    OR    THE    MAN 
I 

WHEN  the  Fairbrothers  left  Government  House  after  their 
dirty  work  was  done,  Jacob  was  well  content  with  himself,  but 
his  brothers  were  still  grumbling. 

"He  didn't  seem  anyways  keen  to  believe  it,"  Thurstan  mut- 
tered. 

"Leave  him  alone  for  that,"  said  Jacob.  "Did  ye  see  when  I 
gave  him  the  letter  ?" 

"Shoo!  I  wouldn't  trust  but  she  will  persuade  him  she  never 
writ  it,"  said  Thurstan. 


THE   BONDMAN  211 

"He's  got  it  anyways,  and  we  have  nothing  to  show  for  it," 
said  Stean. 

"And  noways  powerful  grateful  either.  And  where's  the  for- 
tune that  was  coming  straight  to  our  hand  ?"  said  Ross. 

"Chut,  man,  there's  nothing  for  us  in  his  mighty  schame," 
said  Thurstan. 

"I  always  said  so,"  said  Asher;  "and  five-and-thirty  pounds  of 
good  money  thrown  into  the  sea." 

"Go  on,"  said  Jacob,  with  a  lofty  smile,  "go  on,  don't  save  your 
breath  for  your  porridge,"  and  he  trudged  along  ahead  of  his 
brethren.  Presently  he  stopped,  faced  about  to  them,  and  said, 
"Boys,  you're  mighty  sure  that  nothing  is  coming  of  this  mighty 
schame,"  with  a  look  of  high  disdain  at  Thurstan. 

"Sure  as  death  and  the  taxman,"  sneered  Thurstan. 

"Then  there's  a  boat  sailing  for  Dublin  at  high  water,  and  I'll 
give  five-and-thirty  pounds  apiece  to  every  man  of  you  that  likes 
to  go  home  with  her." 

At  that  there  was  an  uneasy  scraping  of  five  pairs  of  feet,  and 
much  humming  and  hawing  and  snuffling. 

"Quick,  which  of  you  is  it  to  be  ?  Speak  out,  and  don't  all  speak 
at  once,"  said  Jacob. 

Then  Asher,  with  a  look  of  outraged  reason,  said,  "What !  and 
all  our  time  go  for  nothing,  and  the  land  lying  fallow  for  months, 
and  the  winter  cabbage  not  down,  and  the  men's  wages  going 
on?" 

"You  won't  take  it?"  said  Jacob. 

"A  paltry  five-and-thirty,  why,  no,"  said  Asher. 

"Then  let's  have  no  more  of  your  badgering,"  said  Jacob. 

"But,  Jacob,  tell  us  where's  our  account  in  all  this  jeel  with  the 
girl  and  the  Governor,"  said  Gentleman  John. 

"Find  it  out,"  said  Jacob,  with  a  flip  of  finger  and  thumb,  as 
he  strode  on  again  before  his  brothers. 

"Aw,  lave  him  alone,"  said  Stean.    "He's  got  his  schame." 


Next  morning,  before  the  light  was  yet  good,  and  while  the 
warm  vapor  was  still  rising  into  the  chill  air  from  the  waters  of 
the  fiord,  Michael  Sunlocks  sat  at  work  in  the  room  that  served 
him  for  office  and  study.  His  cheeks  were  pale,  his  eyes  were 
heavy,  and  his  whole  countenance  was  haggard.  But  there  was 
a  quiet  strength  in  his  slow  glance  and  languid  step  that  seemed 
to  say  that  in  spite  of  the  tired  look  of  age  about  his  young  face 


212  THE   BONDMAN 

and  lissom  figure  he  was  a  man  of  immense  energy,  power  of  mind 
and  purpose. 

His  man  Oscar  was  bustling  in  and  out  of  the  room  on  many 
errands.  Oscar  was  a  curly-headed  youth  of  twenty,  with  a  happy 
upward  turn  of  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  and  little  twinkling  eyes 
full  of  a  bright  fire. 

The  lad  knew  that  there  was  something  amiss  with  his  master 
by  some  queer  twist  of  nature  that  gave  a  fillip  to  his  natural 
cheerfulness. 

Michael  Sunlocks  would  send  Oscar  across  the  arg  to  the  house 
of  the  Speaker,  and  at  the  next  moment  forget  that  he  had  done 
so,  touch  the  bell,  walk  over  to  the  stove,  stir  the  fire,  and  when 
the  door  opened  behind  him  deliver  his  order  a  second  time  without 
turning  round.  It  would  be  the  maid  who  had  answered  the  bell, 
and  she  would  say,  "If  you  please,  your  Excellency,  Oscar  has  gone 
out.  You  sent  him  across  to  the  Speaker."  And  then  Michael  Sun- 
locks  would  bethink  himself  and  say,  "True,  true;  you  are  quite 
right." 

He  would  write  his  letters  twice,  and  sometimes  fold  them  with- 
out sealing  them;  he  would  read  a  letter  again  and  again  and  not 
grasp  its  contents.  His  coffee  and  toast  that  had  been  brought  in 
on  a  tray  lay  untouched  until  both  were  cold,  though  they  had  been 
set  to  stand  on  the  top  of  the  stove.  He  would  drop  his  pen  to  look 
vacantly  out  at  the  window,  and  cross  the  room  without  an  object, 
and  stand  abruptly  and  seem  to  listen. 

The  twinkling  eyes  of  young  Oscar  saw  something  of  this,  and 
when  the  little  English  maid  stopped  the  lad  in  the  long  passage 
and  questioned  him  of  his  master's  doings,  he  said  with  a  mighty 
knowing  smirk  that  the  President  was  showing  no  more  sense  and 
feeling  and  gumption  that  morning  than  a  tortoise  within  its  shell. 

Toward  noon  the  Fairbrothers  asked  for  Michael  Sunlocks,  and 
were  shown  into  his  room.  They  entered  with  many  bows  and 
scrapes,  and  much  stroking  of  their  forelocks.  Michael  Sunlocks 
received  them  gravely,  with  an  inclination  of  the  head,  but  no 
words. 

"We  make  so  bold  as  to  come  to  see  you  again,"  said  Jacob,  "for 
we've  got  lands  lying  fallow — the  lot  of  us,  bar  myself,  maybe — 
and  we  must  be  getting  back  and  putting  a  sight  on  them." 

Michael  Sunlocks  bowed  slightly. 

"We've  lost  a  good  crop  by  coming,"  said  Jacob,  "and  made 
no  charge  neither,  though  it's  small  thanks  you  get  in  this  world 
for  doing  what's  fair  and  honest." 

"Well  ?"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 


THE   BONDMAN  213 

"She  never  was  good  to  them  that  was  good  to  her,"  said 
Jacob,  "and  we're  taking  sorrow  to  see  that  we're  not  the  only  ones 
that  suffer  from  her  ingratitude." 

"Not  another  word  on  that  head,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 
"What  do  you  want?" 

"Want ?  Well,  it  isn't  so  mortal  kind  to  say  want"  said  Jacob, 
with  the  look  of  one  whose  self-respect  had  been  wounded. 

"A  man  may  be  poor,  but  a  poor  man  has  got  feelings,"  said 
Asher. 

"Poor  or  rich,  I  say  again,  'What  do  you  want  ?'  "  said  Michael 
Sunlocks. 

"Only  to  say  that  we're  going  to  keep  this  little  thing  quiet," 
said  Jacob. 

"Aw,"  quiet,  quiet,"  said  the  others. 

"I  must  leave  that  to  you,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"Aw,  and  safe,  too,"  said  Jacob,  "for  what  for  should  we  be 
going  disgracing  our  own  sister?  It  isn't  natural,  and  her  the  wife 
of  the  President,  too." 

"Aw,  no,  no,"  said  the  brethren. 

"He  won't  hear  a  word  against  her  for  all,"  whispered  John  to 
Jacob. 

"A  girl  may  be  a  bit  wild,  and  doing  sweethearting  before  she 
was  married,"  said  Jacob,  "but  that  is  no  reason  why  all  the  world 
should  be  agate  of  her,  poor  thing ;  and  what's  the  saying,  The  first 
slip  is  always  forgotten  ?' " 

"Silence,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks,  sternly.  "If  this  is  what  you 
have  come  to  say,  we  can  cut  this  meeting  short." 

"Lord-a-massy,"  cried  Asher.  "Is  he  for  showing  us  the  door, 
too?" 

"Who  says  so?"  said  Jacob,  changing  his  tone.  Then  facing 
about  to  Michael  Sunlocks,  he  said,  "It  wouldn't  do  to  be  known 
that  the  President  of  Iceland  had  married  a  bad  woman — would  it  ?" 

Michael  Sunlocks  did  not  reply,  and  Jacob  answered  himself: 
"No,  of  course  not.  So  perhaps  you'll  give  me  back  that  letter  I 
lent  you  yesterday." 

"I  haven't  got  it.     It  is  destroyed,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"Destroyed !"  cried  Jacob. 

"Make  yourself  easy  about  it,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks.  "It 
will  do  no  more  mischief.  It's  burned.  I  burned  it  myself." 

"Burned  it?"  Jacob  exclaimed.  "Why,  do  you  know,  I  set 
great  store  by  that  letter?  I  wouldn't  have  lost  it  for  a  matter  of 
five  hundred  pounds." 

Michael  Sunlocks  could  bear  no  more.    In  an  instant  the  weary 


2i4  THE   BONDMAN 

look  had  gone  from  his  face.  His  eyes  flashed  with  anger;  he 
straightened  himself  up,  and  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table. 
"Come,"  he  cried,  "let  us  have  done  with  this  fencing.  You  want 
me  to  pay  you  five  hundred  pounds.  Is  that  it?" 

"For  the  letter — that's  it,"  said  Jacob. 

"And  if  I  refuse  to  do  so  you  mean  to  publish  it  abroad  that 
I  have  married  a  wicked  woman  ?" 

"Aw,  when  did  we  say  so?"  said  Jacob. 

"No  matter  what  you  say.    You  want  five  hundred  pounds  ?" 

"For  the  letter." 

"Answer.    You  want  five  hundred  pounds?" 

"For  the  letter." 

"Then  you  shall  not  have  one  sixpence.  Do  you  think  I  would 
pay  you  for  a  thing  like  that  ?  Listen  to  me.  I  would  give  you  all 
the  wealth  of  the  world,  if  I  had  it,  never  to  have  heard  your 
evil  news." 

"That  won't  pass,  master,"  said  Jacob.  "It's  easy  said  now  the 
letter's  gone,  and  no  danger  left.  But  five  hundred  pounds  I'll 
have  or  I'll  not  leave  Iceland  till  Iceland  knows  something  more 
than  she  knows  to-day." 

"Say  what  you  like,  do  what  you  like,"  cried  Michael  Sunlocks; 
"but  if  ever  you  set  foot  in  this  house  again,  I'll  clap  every  man 
of  you  in  jail  for  blackmailing." 


ill 

Out  again  in  the  chilly  dusky  air,  with  the  hard  snow  under 
foot,  the  Fairbrothers  trudged  along.  Jacob  gloomed  as  dark  as 
any  pitch,  and  Thurstan's  red  eyes,  like  fire  of  ice,  probed  him  with 
a  burning  delight 

"I  always  said  so,"  Asher  whimpered;  and  then  over  Jacob's 
stooping  shoulder  he  whispered,  "I'll  take  half  of  what  you  offered 
me,  and  leave  you  to  it" 

Hearing  that  Thurstan  laughed  fiercely,  and  repeated  his  hot 
christenings  of  two  days  before — "Numskull !  tomfool !  blather- 
skite!" and  yet  choicer  names  beside.  Jacob  bore  all  and  showed 
no  rancor,  but  tramped  along  ahead  of  the  others,  crestfallen, 
crushed,  and  dumb.  And,  left  to  themselves  for  conversation  and 
comfort,  his  brethren  behind  compared  notes  together. 

"Strange!  He  doesn't  seem  to  care  what  is  thought  of  his 
wife,"  said  John. 

"Aw,  what's  disgrace  to  a  craythur  same  as  that?  Like  mother 
like  son,"  said  Ross. 


THE   BONDMAN  215 

"She  had  better  have  married  the  other  one,"  said  Asher,  "and 
I  always  said  so." 

"It's  self,  self,  self,  with  a  man  like  yonder,"  said  Stean. 

"Curse  him  for  a  selfish  brute,"  said  John. 

"Aw,  an  unfeeling  monster,"  said  Ross. 

And  with  such  heat  of  anger  these  generous  souls  relieved 
themselves  on  the  name  of  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"Boys,"  said  Thurstan,  "maybe  he  has  no  feeling  for  the  girl, 
but  I'll  go  bail  he  has  some  for  himself,  and  I  wouldn't  trust  but 
he'd  be  feeling  it  mortal  keen  if  he  was  after  getting  pulled  down 
from  his  berth." 

"What  d'ye  mean?"  asked  all  four  at  once. 

"Leave  that  to  myself,"  said  Thurstan,  "and  maybe  since  I  set 
foot  ashore-  I've  heard  tell  of  schames  that's  going." 


IV 

Greeba  sat  in  her  room,  trying  to  cheat  time  of  its  weary  hours 
by  virtue  of  much  questioning  of  her  little  English  maid,  who  from 
time  to  time  brought  news  of  Michael  Sunlocks.  He  had  risen  very 
early,  as  early  as  mid-morning  (six  o'clock),  and  ever  since  then 
he  had  been  writing  in  his  office.  Oscar  had  been  running  here 
and  there  for  him,  first  to  the  Senate,  then  to  the  Speaker's,  and 
then  to  the  Bishop's.  The  tall  doorkeeper,  stammering  Jon,  had 
seen  him,  being  sent  for,  and  the  feckless  busybody  had  told  him 
ever  such  needless  stories  of  the  jellies  and  the  soups  and  the 
mistress's  visit  to  the  poor  man  in  the  prison,  and  however  people 
got  wind  of  things  was  just  puzzling  beyond  words. 

With  such  cackle  and  poor  company  Greeba  passed  her  time, 
thinking  no  ill  of  the  pert  little  maid  who  dressed  up  her  hair 
and  dressed  down  her  pride  as  well,  for  a  woman  will  have  any 
confidant  rather  than  none,  and  the  sweetest  and  best  of  women, 
being  estranged  from  her  husband,  her  true  stay  and  support,  will 
lay  hold  of  the  very  sorriest  staff  to  lean  on.  And  the  strange 
twist  of  little  natures,  that  made  Oscar  perky  while  his  master  was 
melancholy,  made  the  maid  jubilant  while  her  mistress  wept.  She 
was  a  dark-haired  mite  with  eyes  of  the  shallow  brightness  of 
burnished  steel.  Her  name  was  Elizabeth.  She  meant  no  harm 
to  any  one. 

Toward  noon  the  little  woman  burst  into  the  room  with  great 
eagerness,  and  cried,  in  a  hushed  whisper,  "The  Speaker  has  come. 
I  am  sure  that  something  is  going  to  happen;  Oscar  says  so,  too. 
What  is  it?  What  can  it  be?" 


216  THE   BONDMAN 

Greeba  listened,  and  carried  herself  bravely  while  the  maid 
was  near,  but  when  the  door  had  closed  upon  the  chatterer  she 
leaned  against  the  window  and  cried,  hearing  nothing  but  her 
own  weeping  and  the  grief  of  the  half-frozen  river  that  flowed 
beneath.  Then,  drying  her  eyes  and  summoning  what  remained 
of  her  pride,  she  left  her  own  room  to  go  to  the  room  of  her 
husband. 


In  his  little  silk  skull-cap  and  spectacles  the  Lagmann  came  back, 
for  he  was  Judge  and  Speaker  in  one,  and  found  Michael  Sun- 
locks  alone.  At  a  glance  he  saw  that  the  trouble  of  the  night  be- 
fore had  deepened,  and  that  something  of  great  moment  was  afoot 

"Lagmann,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks,  "I  wish  you  to  summon 
both  Chambers  to  meet  at  the  Senate  House  to-morrow  night." 

"It  will  be  inconvenient,"  said  the  Speaker,  "for  the  Com- 
mittee of  the  Althing  has  risen,  and  the  members  are  preparing 
to  go  back  home." 

"That  is  why  I  wish  them  to  be  summoned  at  once,"  said 
Michael  Sunlocks. 

"Is  the  matter  of  such  pressing  importance?"  asked  the  Speaker. 

"It  is ;  and  it  admits  of  no  delay,"  answered  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"May  I  mention  its  purport?"  said  the  Speaker. 

"Say  only  that  the  President  has  a  message  for  the  Althing," 
(said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"At  what  hour  to-morrow  night?"  asked  the  Speaker. 

"At  mid-evening,"  answered  Michael  Sunlocks,  and  then,  with 
the  sigh  of  a  weary  man,  he  turned  toward  the  stove. 

The  Speaker  glanced  at  him  with  his  dim  eyes  screwed  up, 
pushed  back  his  little  skull-cap,  and  ran  his  forefinger  along  his 
bald  crown,  then  shook  his  head  gravely  and  left  the  room,  saying 
within  himself,  "Why  this  haste?  And  why  the  message?  Ah, 
these  impetuous  souls  that  rise  so  high  and  so  fast  sometimes  go 
down  headlong  to  the  abyss !" 


VI 

Michael  Sunlocks  was  turning  round  from  the  stove  when 
Greeba  entered,  and  for  all  the  womanly  courage  with  which  she 
tried  to  carry  herself  before  him,  he  could  see  that  she  looked 
frightened,  and  that  her  eyes  sought  his  eyes  for  mercy  and  cheer. 

"Michael,"  she  cried,  "what  is  it  that  you  are  about  to  do?  Tell 
me.  I  can  not  bear  this  suspense  any  longer/' 


THE   BONDMAN  217 

He  made  her  no  answer,  but  sat  at  his  desk  and  lifted  his  pen. 
At  that  she  stamped  her  foot  and  cried  again : 

"Tell  me,  tell  me.     I  can  not  and  I  will  not  bear  it." 

But  he  knew,  without  lifting  his  head,  that  with  all  her  brave 
challenge,  and  the  spark  of  her  defiant  eyes,  behind  her  dark  lashes 
a  great  tear-drop  lay  somewhere  veiled.  So  he  showed  no  anger, 
and  neither  did  he  reply  to  her  appeal,  but  made  some  show  of 
going  on  with  his  writing. 

And  being  now  so  far  recovered  from  her  first  fear  as  to  look 
upon  his  face  with  eyes  that  could  see  it,  Greeba  realized  all  that 
she  had  but  partly  guessed  from  the  chatter  of  her  maid,  of  the 
sad  havoc  the  night  had  made  with  him.  At  that  she  could  bear 
up  no  longer,  for  before  her  warm  woman's  feeling  all  her  little 
stubborn  spirit  went  down  as  with  a  flood,  and  she  flung  herself 
at  his  feet  and  cried,  "Michael,  forgive  me;  I  don't  know  what  I 
am  saying." 

But  getting  no  answer  to  her  passionate  agony  any  more  than 
her  hot  disdain,  her  pride  got  the  better  of  her  again,  and  she  tried 
to  defend  herself  with  many  a  simple  plea,  saying  between  a  sob 
and  a  burst  of  wrath  that  if  she  had  deceived  him,  and  said  what 
was  barely  true,  it  was  only  from  thinking  to  defend  his  happiness. 

"And  why,"  she  cried,  "why  should  I  marry  you  while  loving 
him  ?" 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  raised  his  head  and  answered  her: 

"Because  of  your  pride,  Greeba — your  fatal  pride,"  he  said; 
"your  pride  that  has  been  your  bane  since  you  were  a  child  and 
you  went  to  London  and  came  back  the  prouder  of  your  time  there. 
I  thought  it  was  gone;  but  the  old  leaven  works  as  potently  as 
before,  and  rises  up  to  choke  me.  I  ought  to  have  known  it, 
Greeba,  that  your  old  lightness  would  lead  you  to  some  false  deal- 
ing yet,  and  I  have  none  but  myself  to  blame." 

Now  if  he  had  said  this  with  any  heat  of  anger,  or  with  any 
rush  of  tears,  she  would  have  known  by  the  sure  instinct  of  woman- 
hood that  he  loved  her  still,  and  was  only  fighting  against  love  in 
vain.  Then  she  would  have  flung  herself  into  his  arms  with  a 
burst  of  joy  and  a  cry  of  "My  darling,  you  are  mine,  you  are  mine." 
But  instead  of  that  he  spoke  the  hard  words  calmly,  coldly,  and 
without  so  much  as  a  sigh,  and  by  that  she  knew  that  the  heart 
of  his  love  had  been  killed  within  him,  and  now  lay  dead  before 
her.  So,  stung  to  the  quick,  she  said,  "You  mean  that  I  deserted 
Jason  because  he  was  poor,  and  came  here  to  you  because  you  are 
rich.  It  is  false — cruelly,  basely  false.  You  know  it  is  false;  or, 

if  you  don't,  you  ought." 

10  Yol.  II. 


2i8  THE   BONDMAN 

"I  am  far  from  rich,  Greeba,"  he  said,  "although  to  your  pride 
I  may  seem  so,  seeing  that  he  whom  you  left  for  the  sake  of  the 
poor  glory  of  my  place  here  was  but  a  friendless  sailor  lad." 

"I  tell  you  it  is  false,"  she  cried.  "I  could  have  loved  my 
husband  if  he  had  never  had  a  roof  over  his  head.  And  yet  you 
tell  me  that  ?  You  that  should  know  me  so  well !  How  dare  you  ?' 
she  cried,  and  by  the  sudden  impulse  of  her  agony,  with  love  strug- 
gling against  anger,  and  fire  and  tears  in  her  eyes  together,  she 
lifted  up  her  hand  and  struck  him  on  the  breast. 

That  blow  did  more  than  any  tearful  plea  to  melt  the  icy  mis- 
trust that  had  all  night  been  freezing  up  his  heart,  but  before  he 
had  time  to  reply  Greeba  was  on  her  knees  before  him,  praying 
of  him  to  forgive  her,  because  she  did  not  know  what  she  was 
doing. 

"But,  Michael,"  she  said  again,  "it  isn't  true.  Indeed,  indeed, 
it  is  not,  and  it  is  very,  very  cruel.  Yes,  I  am  proud,  very  proud, 
but  I  am  proudest  of  all  of  my  husband.  Proud  of  him,  proud  for 
him — proud  that  he  should  be  the  bravest  and  noblest  gentleman 
in  the  world.  That  is  the  worst  of  my  pride,  Michael — that  I  want 
to  be  proud  of  him  I  love.  But  if  that  might  not  have  been,  and 
he  had  been  the  lowliest  man  on  earth,  I  could  have  shared  his  lot 
though  it  had  been  never  so  poor  and  humble,  so  that  I  could  have 
had  him  beside  me  always." 

As  he  listened  to  her  passionate  words  there  was  a  fluttering 
at  his  throat.  "Are  you  sure  of  that,  Greeba  ?"  he  said. 

"Only  let  me  prove  it  to  you,"  she  cried,  with  the  challenge 
of  beauty  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"So  you  shall,  Greeba,"  he  said,  "for  we  leave  this  house  to- 
morrow." 

"What?"  she  cried,  rising  to  her  feet. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "from  to-morrow  our  condition  will  be  dif- 
ferent. So  get  yourself  ready  to  go  away  from  here." 

Then  her  courageous  challenge  sank  away  in  an  instant. 

"Whatever  do  you  mean?"  she  cried,  in  great  terror. 

"If  you  have  married  the  President  you  shall  live  with  the 
man,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  Michael,  Michael,  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  cried. 
"To  degrade  yourself  ?" 

"Even  so,"  he  said  calmly. 

"To  punish  me  ?"  she  cried.    "To  prove  me  ?    To  test  me  ?" 

"If  you  can  go  through  with  it  I  shall  be  happy  and  content," 
he  answered. 

"Are  you  then  to  be  nothing  in  Iceland  ?"  she  said. 


THE   BONDMAN  219 

"And  what  of  that?"  he  asked.  "Think  of  what  you  have  just 
been  saying." 

"Then  I  have  come  into  you-r  life  to  wreck  it,"  she  cried.  "Yes, 
I,  I !  Michael,"  she  added,  more  quietly,  "I  will  go  away.  I  would 
not  bring  shame  and  humiliation  upon  you  for  all  that  the  world 
can  give.  I  will  leave  you." 

"That  you  never  shall,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks.  "We  are  man 
and  wife  now,  and  as  man  and  wife  we  shall  live  together." 

"I  tell  you  I  will  not  stay,"  she  cried. 

"And  I  tell  you,"  he  replied,  "that  I  am  your  husband,  and  you 
shall  give  me  a  wife's  obedience." 

"Michael,  dear  Michael,"  she  said,  "it  is  for  your  own  good 
that  I  want  to  leave  you,  so  that  the  great  promise  of  your  life  may 
not  be  wasted.  It  is  I  who  am  breaking  in  upon  it.  And  I  am 
nothing.  Let  me  go." 

"It  is  too  late,  Greeba.  As  poor  man  and  poor  woman  we  must 
pass  the  rest  of  our  life  together." 

At  that  she  burst  into  sobs  again,  blaming  her  brothers,  and 
telling  of  their  mean  mission,  and  how  she  resented  it,  and  what 
revenge  of  wicked  slander  they  had  wreaked  upon  her. 

"You  see  it  is  all  an  error,"  she  cried :  "a  cruel,  cruel  error." 

"No,  Greeba,  it  is  not  all  an  error,"  he  answered.  It  is  not  an 
error  that  you  deceived  me — and  lied  to  me." 

At  that  word  her  tears  fell  back,  and  the  fire  of  her  heart  was 
in  her  eyes  in  an  instant.  "You  say  that,  do  you  ?"  she  cried.  "Ah, 
then,  perhaps  there  has  been  yet  another  error  than  you  think  of 
— the  error  of  throwing  him  away  for  sake  of  you.  He  is  noble, 
and  simple,  and  true.  His  brave  heart  is  above  all  suspicion.  God 
pity  him,  and  forgive  me!" 

Then  for  the  first  time  that  day  since  the  six  Fairbrothers  had 
left  the  house,  the  calmness  of  Michael  Sunlocks  forsook  him,  and 
in  a  stern  voice,  with  a  look  of  fierce  passion  in  his  face,  he  cried, 
"Let  me  never,  never  meet  that  man.  Five  years  ago  I  came  here 
to  save  him,  but  now  if  we  ever  come  face  to  face  it  will  be  the 
hour  of  his  death  or  mine." 


220  THE   BONDMAN 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE    FALL    OF    MICHAEL    SUNLOCKS 

WHEN  the  Fairbrothers,  in  the  first  days  after  their  coming  to 
Iceland,  started  inquiries  touching  the  position  and  influence  of 
Michael  Sunlocks,  thinking  thereby  to  make  sure  of  their  birds 
in  the  bush  before  parting  with  their  bird  in  the  hand,  they  fre- 
quented a  little  drinking-shop  in  the  Cheapstead  where  sailors  of 
many  nations  congregated,  Danes,  Icelanders,  Norwegians,  English, 
and  Irish.  Hearing  there  what  satisfied  their  expectations,  their 
pride  began  to  swell,  and  as  often  as  Michael  Sunlocks  was  named 
with  honor  they  blew  up  their  breasts  like  bantams  and  said  he  was 
their  brother,  so  to  speak,  and  had  been  brought  up  in  the  same 
house  with  them  since  he  was  a  slip  of  a  brat  of  two  or  three. 
And  if  any  who  heard  them  glanced  them  over  with  doubtful'eyes 
they  straightway  broke  into  facetious  stories  concerning  the  boy- 
hood of  Sunlocks,  showing  all  their  wondrous  kindness  to  him  as 
big  brothers  toward  a  little  one. 

Now  these  trifling  events  were  of  grave  consequence  to  the 
fortunes  of  the  Fairbrothers,  and  the  fate  of  Michael  Sunlocks,  at 
two  great  moments.  The  first  of  the  two  was  when  Thurstan 
broke  into  open  rebellion  against  Jacob.  Then,  with  a  sense  of  his 
wise  brother's  pitiable  blunder-headedness,  the  astute  Thurstan  went 
off  to  the  same  drinking-shop  to  console  himself  with  drink,  and 
there  he  was  addressed,  when  he  was  well  and  comfortably  drunk, 
by  a  plausible  person  who  spoke  an  unknown  tongue.  The  end  of 
that  conference  was  nevertheless  an  idea  firmly  settled  in  Thur- 
stan's  mind  that  if  he  could  not  get  money  out  of  Michael  Sunlocks 
he  could  at  least  get  satisfaction. 

This  was  the  matter  that  Thurstan  darkly  hinted  at  when  Jacob, 
being  utterly  discomfited,  had  to  leave  all  further  schemes  to  his 
brethren.  So  that  day  he  returned  to  his  rendezvous,  met  the 
plausible  person  again,  and  later  in  the  evening  sought  out  his 
brothers  and  said,  "Didn't  I  tell  ye  to  leave  it  to  me?" 

"What's  going  doing?"  said  four  voices  at  once. 

"Plucking  him  down,  the  upstart,  that's  what's  going  doing," 
said  Thurstan. 


THE   BONDMAN  221 

Then  to  five  pairs  of  eager  ears  it  slowly  leaked  out  that  a  Dan- 
ish ship  lay  in  the  harbor  with  a  mysterious  cargo  of  great  casks, 
supposed  to  contain  tallow;  that  after  discharging  their  contents 
these  casks  were  to  be  filled  with  shark's  oil ;  that  waiting  the  time 
to  fill  them  they  were  to  be  stored  (as  all  other  warehouses  were 
full  of  bonder's  stock)  in  the  little  cell  of  detention  under  the 
senate-house;  and,  finally  and  most  opportunely,  that  a  meeting  of 
the  Althing  had  been  summoned  on  special  business  for  the  next 
night  following,  and  that  Michael  Sunlocks  was  to  be  present. 

The  Fairbrothers  heard  all  this  with  eyes  that  showed  how  well 
they  understood  it  and  keenly  gloated  over  it.  And  late  the  same 
night  the  cargo  of  great  casks  was  unshipped  at  the  jetty,  wheeled 
up  to  the  senate-house  and  lodged  there,  carefully,  silently,  one 
by  one.  Thurstan  helping,  a  few  stragglers  looking  on,  the  stam- 
mering doorkeeper,  long  Jon,  not  anywhere  visible,  and  no  one 
else  in  the  little  sleepy  town  a  whit  the  wiser.  This  being  done, 
Thurstan  went  back  to  his  lodging  with  the  content  of  a  soul  at 
ease,  saying  to  himself,  "As  I  say,  if  we  don't  get  anything  else, 
we'll  get  satisfaction;  and  if  we  get  what's  promised  I've  a  safe 
place  to  put  it  until  the  trouble's  over  and  we  can  clear  away,  and 
that's  the  little  crib  under  the  turret  of  the  cathedral  church." 

Then  the  worthy  man  lay  down  to  sleep. 

Before  Thurstan  was  awake  next  morning  Reykjavik  was  all 
astir.  It  had  become  known  that  a  special  sitting  of  the  Althing 
had  been  summoned  for  that  night,  and  because  nothing  was 
known  much  was  said  concerning  the  business  afoot.  People  gath- 
ered in  groups  where  the  snow  of  the  heavy  drifts  had  been  banked 
up  at  the  street  corners,  and  gossiped  and  guessed.  Such  little 
work  as  the  great  winter  left  to  any  man  was  done  in  haste  or  not 
at  all,  that  men  might  meet  in  the  stores,  the  drinking-shops,  and 
on  the  Cheapstead  and  ask,  "Why?"  "Wherefore?"  and  "What 
does  it  mean?"  That  some  event  of  great  moment  was  pending 
seemed  to  be  the  common  opinion  everywhere,  though  what  ground 
it  rested  on  no  one  knew,  for  no  one  knew  anything.  Only  on  one 
point  was  the  feeling  more  general,  or  nearer  right;  that  the 
President  himself  was  at  the  root  and  centre  of  whatever  was 
coming. 

Before  nightfall  this  vague  sentiment,  which  ever  hovers,  like 
a  dark  cloud  over  a  nation  when  a  storm  is  near  to  breaking  upon 
it,  had  filled  every  house  in  the  capital,  so  that  when  the  hour  was 
come  for  the  gathering  of  the  Althing  the  streets  were  thronged. 
Tow-headed  children  in  goat-skin  caps  ran  here  and  there,  women 
stood  at  the  doors  of  houses,  young  girls  leaned  out  of  windows  in 


222  THE   BONDMAN 

spite  of  the  cold,  sailors  and  fishermen  with  pipes  between  their 
lips  and  their  hands  deep  in  their  pockets  lounged  in  grave  silence 
outside  the  taverns,  and  old  men  stood  under  the  open  lamps  by  the 
street  corners  and  chewed  and  snuffed  to  keep  themselves  warm. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  the  wooden  senate-house  on  the  High 
Street  the  throng  was  densest,  and  such  of  the  members  as  came 
afoot  had  to  crush  their  way  to  the  door.  All  the  space  within 
that  had  been  allotted  to  the  public  was  filled  as  soon  as  stammer- 
ing Jon  opened  the  side  door.  When  no  more  room  was  left  the 
side  door  was  closed  again  and  locked,  and  it  was  afterward  re- 
membered, when  people  had  time  to  put  their  heads  together,  that 
long  Jon  was  there  and  then  seen  to  pass  the  key  of  this  side  door 
to  one  of  the  six  English  strangers  who  had  lately  come  to  the 
town.  That  stranger  was  Thurstan  Fairbrother. 

The  time  of  waiting  before  the  proceedings  commenced  was 
passed  by  those  within  the  senate-house  in  snuff-taking  and  sneez- 
ing and  coughing,  and  a  low  buzz  of  conversation,  full  of  solemn 
conjecture. 

The  members  came  in  twos  and  threes,  and  every  fresh  comer 
was  quizzed  for  a  hint  of  the  secret  of  the  night.  But  grave  and 
silent,  when  taken  together,  with  the  gravity  and  solemnity  of  so 
many  oxen,  and  some  of  the  oxen's  sullen  stupidity,  were  the  faces 
both  of  members  and  spectators.  Yet  among  both  were  faces  that 
told  of  amused  unbelief,  calculating  spirits  that  seemed  to  say  that 
all  this  excitement  was  a  bubble  and  would  presently  burst  like  one ; 
sapient  souls  who,  when  the  world  is  dead,  will  believe  in  no  judg- 
ment until  they  hear  the  last  trump. 

There  were  two  parties  in  the  Senate — the  Church  party,  that 
wanted  religion  to  be  the  basis  of  the  reformed  government;  and 
the  Levelers,  who  wished  the  distinctions  of  clergy  and  laity  to  be 
abolished  so  far  as  secular  power  could  go.  The  Church  party  was 
led  by  the  Bishop,  who  was  a  member  of  the  higher  chamber,  the 
Council,  by  virtue  of  his  office ;  the  Levelers  were  led  by  the  little 
man  with  piercing  eyes  and  the  square  brush  of  iron-gray  hair  who 
had  acted  as  spokesman  to  the  Court  at  the  trial  of  Red  Jason.  As 
each  of  these  arrived  there  was  a  faint  commotion  through  the 
house. 

Presently  the  Speaker  came  shuffling  in,  wiping  his  brow  with 
his  red  handkerchief,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  thud  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  hard  snow  outside,  followed  by  a  deep  buzz  as  of  many 
voices — not  cheering  nor  yet  groaning — told  of  the  coming  of  the 
President. 

Then,  amid  suppressed  excitement,   Michael  Sunlocks  entered 


THE   BONDMAN 


223 


the  house,  looking  weary,  pale,  much  older,  and  stooping  slightly 
under  his  flaxen  hair,  as  if  conscious  of  the  gaze  of  many  eyes 
fixed  steadfastly  upon  him. 

After  the  Speaker  had  taken  his  chair,  Michael  Sunlocks  rose  in 
his  place  amid  dead  stillness. 

"Sir,  and  gentlemen,"  he  said  in  a  tense  voice,  speaking  slowly, 
calmly,  and  well,  "you  are  met  here  at  my  instance  to  receive  a 
message  of  some  gravity.  It  is  scarcely  more  than  half  a  year 
since  it  was  declared  and  enacted  by  this  present  Council  of  the 
Althing  that  the  people  of  Iceland  were  and  should  be  constituted, 
established  and  confirmed  to  be  a  Republic  or  Free  State,  governed 
by  the  Supreme  Authority  of  the  Nation,  the  people's  representa- 
tives. You  were  then  pleased  to  do  me  the  honor  of  electing  me 
to  be  your  first  President,  and  though  I  well  knew  that  no  man  had 
less  cause  to  put  himself  forward  in  the  cause  of  his  country  than 
I,  being  the  youngest  among  you,  the  least  experienced,  and,  by 
birth,  an  Englishman,  yet  I  undertook  the  place  I  am  now  in  be- 
cause I  had  taken  a  chief  hand  in  pulling  down  the  old  order,  and 
ought,  therefore,  to  lend  the  best  help  I  could  toward  putting  up  the 
new.  Other  reasons  influenced  me,  such  as  the  desire  to  keep  the 
nation  from  falling  amid  many  internal  dissensions  into  extreme 
disorder  and  becoming  open  to  the  common  enemy.  I  will  not  say 
that  I  had  no  personal  motives,  no  private  aims,  no  selfish  ambi- 
tions in  stepping  in  where  your  confidence  opened  the  way,  but  you 
will  bear  me  witness  that  in  the  employment  to  which  the  nation 
called  me,  though  there  may  have  been  passion  and  mistakes,  I 
have  endeavored  to  discharge  the  duty  of  an  honest  man." 

There  was  a  low  murmur  of  assent,  then  a  pause,  then  a  hush, 
and  then  Michael  Sunlocks  continued: 

"But,  gentlemen,  I  have  come  to  see  that  I  am  not  able  for 
such  a  trust  as  the  burden  of  this  government,  and  I  now  beg  to 
be  dismissed  of  my  charge." 

Then  the  silence  was  broken  by  many  exclamations  of  surprise. 
They  fell  on  the  ear  of  Michael  Sunolcks  like  the  ground-swell 
of  a  distant  sea.  His  white  face  quivered,  but  his  eyes  were  bright, 
and  he  did  not  flinch. 

"It  is  no  doubt  your  concernment  to  know  what  events  and 
what  convictions  have  so  suddenly  influenced  me,  and  I  can  only 
claim  your  indulgence  in  withholding  that  part  of  both  that  touches 
the  interests  of  others.  For  myself,  I  can  but  say  that  I  have 
made  mistakes  and  lost  self-confidence ;  that  being  unable  to  man- 
age my  own  affairs  I  am  unwilling  to  undertake  the  affairs  of  the 
nation;  that  I  am  convinced  I  am  unfit  for  the  great  place  I  hold; 


224  '  THE   BONDMAN 

that  any  name  were  fitter  than  mine  for  my  post,  any  person  fitter 
than  I  am  for  its  work ;  and  I  say  this  from  my  heart,  God  knows." 
He  was  listened  to  in  silence,  but  amid  a  tumult  of  unheard 
emotion,  and  as  he  went  on  his  voice,  though  still  low,  was  so 
charged  with  suppressed  feeling  that  it  seemed  in  that  dead  stillness 
to  rise  to  a  cry. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "though  this  may  come  on  you  with 
surprise,  do  not  think  it  has  been  lightly  resolved  upon,  or  that 
it  is  to  me  a  little  thing  to  renounce  the  honor  with  the  burden 
of  government;  I  will  deal  plainly  and  faithfully  with  you  and 
say  that  all  my  heart  was  in  the  work  you  gave  me,  and  though 
I  held  my  life  in  my  hand,  I  was  willing  to  adventure  it  in  that 
high  place  where  the  judgment  of  the  Althing  placed  me.  So  if  I 
beg  of  you  to  release  me  I  sacrifice  more  by  my  resignation  than  you 
by  your  dismissal.  If  I  had  pride,  Heaven  has  humbled  it,  and  that 
is  a  righteous  judgment  of  God.  Young  and  once  hopeful,  I  am 
withdrawing  from  all  sight  of  hope.  I  am  giving  up  my  cherished 
ambitions  and  the  chances  of  success.  When  I  leave  this  place 
you  will  see  me  no  more.  I  am  to  be  as  nothing  henceforward,  for 
the  pole-star  of  my  life  is  gone  out.  So  not  without  feeling,  not 
without  pain,  I  ask  you  to  dismiss  me  and  let  me  go  my  ways." 

He  sat  down  upon  these  words  amid  the  stunned  stupefaction 
of  those  who  heard  him,  and  when  he  had  ceased  to  speak  it  seemed 
as  if  he  were  still  speaking.  Presently  the  people  recovered  their 
breath  and  there  was  the  harsh  grating  of  feet,  and  a  murmur  like 
a  low  sough  of  wind. 

Then  rose  the  little  man  with  the  brush  hair,  the  leader  of  the 
Levelers,  and  the  chief  opponent  of  Michael  Sunlocks  in  the  Presi- 
dency. His  name  was  Grimmsson.  Clearing  his  throat,  raspily,  he 
began  to  speak  in  short,  jerky  sentences.  This  was  indeed  a  sur- 
prise that  moved  the  house  to  great  astonishment.  There  was  a 
suspicion  of  mock  heroics  about  it  that  he,  for  his  part,  could  not 
shake  off,  for  they  all  knew  the  President  for  a  dreamer  of  dreams. 
The  President  had  said  that  it  was  within  the  concernment  of 
the  Althing  to  know  how  it  stood  that  he  had  so  suddenly  and  sur- 
prisingly become  convinced  of  his  unfitness.  Truly  he  was  right 
there.  Also  the  President  had  said  that  he  had  undertaken  his  post 
not  so  much  out  of  hope  of  doing  any  good  as  out  of  a  desire  to 
prevent  mischief  and  evil.  Yet  what  was  he  now  doing?  Running 
them  headlong  into  confusion  and  disorder. 

The  leader  of  the  Levelers  sat  down,  and  a  dark-browed  fel- 
low from  among  his  followers  rose  in  his  place.  What  did  this 
hubbub  mean  ?  If  the  President  had  been  crazy  in  his  health  they 


THE   BONDMAN  225 

might  have  understood  it;  but  the  Lord  was  pleased  to  preserve 
him.  Perhaps  they  had  to  look  deeper.  Whispers  were  abroad 
among  some  who  had  been  near  to  the  President's  person  that  the 
time  had  come  to  settle  the  order  and  prosperity  of  Iceland  on  a 
new  basis.  He  made  no  doubt  such  whispers  implied  a  Protec- 
torate, perhaps  even  a  Monarchy.  Did  the  President  think  to 
hasten  the  crisis  that  would  lead  to  that  change?  Did  he  hope  to 
alter  the  name  of  President  for  Protector,  or  for  something  yet 
higher  ?  Was  he  throwing  his  sprat  to  catch  a  mackerel  ?  Let 
them  look  to  it. 

The  dark-browed  man  sat  down,  with  a  grin  of  triumph,  and 
his  place  was  taken  by  a  pert  little  beardless  person,  with  a  smirk 
on  his  face.  They  had  all  read  the  parable  of  how  a  certain  man 
made  a  feast,  and  did  his  friends  the  honor  to  invite  them ;  but  first 
one  friend  for  one  halting  reason,  and  then  another  for  a  reason  yet 
more  lame,  excused  himself  from  sitting  at  the  good  man's  table. 
Well,  one  of  these  excuses  was  from  a  man  who  had  married  a 
wife,  and  therefore  could  not  come.  Now  the  President  had  mar- 
ried a  wife — 

The  little  man  got  no  further,  for  Michael  Sunlocks,  whose 
features  had  flushed  up,  leaped  to  his  feet  again,  against  all  order 
and  precedent  in  that  rude  chamber  so  reverent  of  law. 

"I  knew,"  he  said,  amid  the  silence  of  the  wide-eyed  people, 
"when  I  came  to  this  house  to-day,  that  the  censure  of  Iceland 
might  follow  me  when  I  left  it,  but  its  shame  shall  not  pursue  me. 
I  also  knew  that  there  were  persons  not  well  content  with  the 
present  order  of  things  who  might  show  their  discontent  as  they 
had  opportunity;  but  before  the  insinuations  of  base  motives  that 
have  just  been  made  I  take  you  to  witness  that  all  that  go  with  them 
are  malicious  figments.  My  capacity  any  man  may  impeach,  but 
my  honest  name  none  shall  question  without  challenge,  for  the 
sole  pride  I  shall  carry  away  with  me  when  I  leave  this  place 
shall  be  the  pride  of  an  upright  life." 

With  that  he  put  on  his  hat  where  he  stood,  and  the  people, 
thrilled  to  their  hearts  by  his  ringing  voice,  and  his  eyes  full  of 
splendid  courage,  broke  into  a  great  clamor  of  cheers. 

"Peace,  peace,"  cried  a  deep  voice  over  the  tumult.  The  old 
Bishop  had  risen  to  speak. 

"This  is  a  quarrelsome  age,"  he  said,  "an  age  when  there  seems 
to  be  a  strange  itching  in  the  spirits  of  men,  when  near  every  man 
•eems  to  seek  his  brother's  disquiet  all  he  may,  when  wretched 
jealousies  and  the  spirit  of  calumny  turn  everything  to  gall  and 
wormwood.  But  can  we*  not  take  the  President's  message  for  what 


226  THE   BONDMAN 

it  claims  to  be,  asking  him  for  no  reasons  that  concern  us  not? 
When  has  he  betrayed  us?  His  life  since  his  coming  here  has 
been  marked  by  strict  integrity.  When  has  pride  been  his  bane? 
His  humility  has  ever  been  his  praise.  He  has  been  modest  with 
the  highest  power  and  shown  how  little  he  valued  those  distances 
he  was  bound  to  keep  up.  When  has  mammon  been  his  god?  If 
he  leaves  us  now  he  leaves  us  a  poor  man,  as  the  Althing  may  well 
assure  itself.  But  let  us  pray  that  this  may  not  come  to  pass. 
When  he  was  elected  to  the  employment  he  holds,  being  so  young 
a  man,  many  trembled — and  I  among  them — for  the  nation  that 
had  entrusted  its  goods  and  its  lives  to  his  management,  but  now 
we  know  that  only  in  his  merit  and  virtue  can  it  find  its  safety  and 
repose.  Let  me  not  be  prodigal  of  praise  before  his  face,  but  honor 
and  honesty  require  this,  that  we  say  that  so  true  a  man  is  not  to 
be  found  this  day  in  Iceland." 

The  Bishop's  words  had  quickened  the  pulse  of  the  people,  and 
cheer  followed  cheer  again.  "It  is  written,"  continued  the  Bishop, 
"that  whosoever  exalteth  himself  shall  be  abased,  and  he  that 
humbleth  himself  shall  be  exalted.  Our  young  President  has  this 
day  sat  down  in  the  lowest  room ;  and  if  he  must  needs  leave  us, 
having  his  own  reasons  that  are  none  of  ours,  may  the  Lord  cause 
His  face  to  shine  upon  him,  and  comfort  him  in  all  his  adversities." 

Then  there  was  but  one  voice  in  that  assembly,  the  voice  of  a 
loud  Amen.  And  Michael  Sunlocks  had  risen  again  with  a  white 
face  and  dim  eyes,  to  return  his  thanks,  and  say  his  last  word 
before  the  vote  for  his  release  should  be  taken,  when  there  was  a 
sudden  commotion,  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet,  a  rush,  a  startled  cry, 
and  at  the  next  moment  a  company  of  soldiers  had  entered  the 
house  from  the  cell  below,  and  stood  with  drawn  swords  on  the 
floor. 

Before  any  one  had  recovered  from  his  surprise  one  of  the  sol- 
diers had  spoken.  "Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "the  door  is  locked — 
you  are  prisoners  of  the  King  of  Denmark." 

"Betrayed !"  shouted  fifty  voices  at  once,  and  then  there  was 
wild  confusion. 

"So  this  mysterious  mummery  is  over  at  last,"  said  the  leader 
of  the  Levelers,  rising  up  with  rigid  limbs,  and  a  scared  and 
whitened  face.  "Now  we  know  why  we  have  all  been  brought 
here  to-night.  Betrayed  indeed — and  there  stands  the  betrayer." 

So  saying  he  pointed  scornfully  at  Michael  Sunlocks,  who 
stood  where  he  had  risen,  with  the  look  of  deep  emotion  hardly  yet 
banished  from  his  face  by  the  look  of  bewilderment  that  followed  it. 

"False,"  Michael  Sunlocks  cried.     "It-  is  false  as  hell." 


THE   BONDMAN  227 

But  in  that  quick  instant  the  people  looked  at  him  with  changed 
eyes,  and  received  his  words  with  a  groan  of  rage  that  silenced  him. 

That  night  Jorgen  Jorgensen  sailed  up  the  fiord,  and,  landing  at 
Reykjavik,  took  possession  of  it,  and  the  second  Republic  of  Ice- 
land was  at  an  end. 

That  night,  too,  when  the  Fairbrothers,  headed  by  TKurstan, 
trudged  through  the  streets  on  their  way  to  Government  House, 
looking  to  receive  the  reward  that  had  been  promised  them,  they 
were  elbowed  by  a  drunken  company  of  the  Danes  who  frequented 
the  drinking-shops  on  the  Cheapstead. 

"Why,  here  are  his  brothers,"  shouted  one  of  the  roisterers, 
pointing  at  the  Fairbrothers. 

"His  brothers !  His  brothers !"  shouted  twenty  more. 

Thurstan  tried  to  protest  and  Jacob  to  fraternize,  but  all  was 
useless.  The  brethren  were  attacked  for  the  relation  they  had 
claimed  with  the  traitor  who  had  fallen,  and  thus  the  six  worthy 
and  unselfish  souls  who  had  come  to  Iceland  for  gain  and  lost 
everything,  and  waited  for  revenge  and  only  won  suspicion,  were 
driven  off  in  peril  of  their  necks,  with  a  drunken  mob  at  full  cry 
behind  them. 

They  took  refuge  in  a  coasting  schooner,  setting  sail  for  the 
eastern  fiords.  Six  days  afterward  the  schooner  was  caught  in  the 
ice  at  the  mouth  of  Seydis  fiord,  imprisoned  there  four  months,  out 
of  reach  of  help  from  land  or  sea,  and  every  soul  aboard  died 
miserably. 

Short  as  had  been  the  shrift  of  Red  Jason,  the  shrift  of  Michael 
Sunlocks  was  yet  shorter.  On  the  order  of  Jorgen  Jorgensen,  the 
"late  usurper  of  the  Government  of  Iceland"  was  sent  for  the  term 
of  his  natural  life  to  the  Sulphur  Mines  that  he  had  himself  estab- 
lished as  a  penal  settlement. 

And  such  was  the  fall  of  Michael  Sunlocks. 


THE    BOOK    OF    RED    JASON 

CHAPTER   I 

WHAT    BEFELL    OLD    ADAM 

Now  it  would  be  a  long  task  to  follow  closely  all  that  befell 
the  dear  old  Adam  Fairbrother,  from  the  time  when  the  ship 
wherein  he  sailed  for  Iceland  weighed  anchor  in  Ramsey  Bay. 
Yet  not  to  know  what  strange  risks  he  ran,  and  how  in  the 
end  he  overcame  all  dangers,  by  God's  grace  and  his  own  ex- 
treme labor,  is  not  to  know  this  story  of  how  two  good  men  with 
a  good  woman  between  them  pursued  each  other  over  the  earth 
with  vows  of  vengeance,  and  came  together  at  length  in  heaven's 
good  time  and  way.  So  not  to  weary  the  spirit  with  much  speak- 
ing, yet  to  leave  nothing  unsaid  that  shall  carry  us  onward  to  that 
great  hour  when  Red  Jason  and  Michael  Sunlocks  stood  face  to 
face,  let  us  begin  where  Adam's  peril  began,  and  hasten  forward 
to  where  it  ended. 

Fourteen  days  out  of  Ramsey,  in  latitude  of  sixty-four  degrees, 
distant  about  five  leagues  north  of  the  Faroes,  and  in  the  course  of 
west-northwest,  hoping  to  make  the  western  shores  of  Iceland, 
Adam  with  his  shipmates  was  overtaken  by  foul  weather,  with 
high  seas  and  strong  wind  opposing  them  stoutly  from  the  north- 
west. Thus  they  were  driven  well  into  the  latitude  of  sixty-six  off 
the  eastern  coast  of  Iceland,  and  there,  though  the  seas  still  ran 
as  high  as  to  the  poop,  they  were  much  beset  by  extraordinary 
pieces  of  ice  which  appeared  to  come  down  from  Greenland.  Then 
the  wind  abated,  and  an  unsearchable  and  noisome  fog  followed; 
so  dense  that  not  an  acre  of  sea  could  be  seen  from  the  topmast 
head,  and  so  foul  that  the  compasses  would  not  work  in  it.  After 
that,  though  they  wrought  night  and  day  with  poles  and  spikes,  they 
were  beaten  among  the  ice  as  scarce  any  ship  ever  was  before,  and 
so  terrible  were  the  blows  they  suffered  that  many  a  time  they 
thought  the  planks  must  be  wrenched  from  the  vessel's  sides. 
Nevertheless  they  let  fall  sail,  thinking  to  force  their  way  through 
the  ice  before  they  were  stoved  to  pieces,  and,  though  the  wind 
was  low,  yet  the  ship  felt  the  canvas  and  cleared  the  shoals  that 
encompassed  her.  The  wind  then  fell  to  a  calm,  but  still  the  fog 
hung  heavily  over  the  sea,  which  was  black  and  smelt  horribly. 
(228) 


THE   BONDMAN  229 

And  when  they  thought  to  try  their  soundings,  knowing  that  some- 
where thereabout  the  land  must  surely  be,  they  heard  a  noise  that 
seemed  at  first  like  the  tract  of  the  shore.  It  was  worse  than  that, 
for  it  was  the  rut  of  a  great  bank  of  ice,  two  hundred  miles  deep, 
breaking  away  from  the  far  shores  of  Greenland,  and  coming  with 
its  steady  sweep,  such  as  no  human  power  could  resist,  toward  the 
coasts  of  Iceland.  Between  that  vast  ice  floe  and  the  land  they 
lay,  with  its  hollow  and  terrible  voice  in  their  ears,  and  with  no 
power  to  fly  from  it,  for  their  sails  hung  loose  and  idle  in  the  dead 
stillness  of  the  air. 

Oh !  it  is  an  awful  thing  to  know  that  death  is  swooping  down 
on  you  hour  by  hour ;  to  hear  it  coming  with  its  hideous  thunder, 
like  the  groans  of  damned  souls,  and  yet  to  see  nothing  of  your 
danger  for  the  day-darkness  that  blinds  you.  But  the  shipmaster 
was  a  stout-hearted  fellow,  and  while  the  fog  continued  and  he  was 
without  the  help  of  wind  or  compass,  he  let  go  a  raven  that  he 
had  aboard  to  see  if  it  could  discover  land.  The  raven  flew  to  the 
northeast,  and  did  not  return  to  the  ship,  and  by  that  token  the 
master  knew  that  the  land  of  Iceland  lay  somewhere  near  on  their 
starboard  bow.  So  he  was  for  lowering  the  long  boat,  to  stand 
in  with  the  coast  and  learn  kwhat  part  of  Iceland  it  was,  when  sud- 
denly the  wind  larged  again,  and  before  long  it  blew  with  violence. 

At  this  their  peril  was  much  increased,  for  the  night  before  had 
been  bitterly  cold,  and  the  sails  had  been  frozen  where  they  hung 
outspread,  and  some  of  the  cables  were  as  stiff  as  icicles  and  half 
as  thick  as  a  man's  body.  Thus  under  wind  that  in  a  short  space 
rose  to  a  great  storm,  with  canvas  that  could  not  be  reefed,  an 
ocean  of  ice  coming  down  behind,  and  seas  beneath  of  an  untouch- 
able depth,  they  were  driven  on  and  on  toward  an  unknown  shore. 

From  the  like  danger  may  God  save  all  Christian  men,  even  as 
he  saved  old  Adam  and  his  fellowship,  for  they  had  begun  to  pre- 
pare themselves  to  make  a  good  end  of  their  hopeless  lives,  when 
in  the  lift  of  the  fog  the  master  saw  an  opening  in  the  coast,  and 
got  into  it,  and  his  ship  rode  safely  on  a  quick  tide  down  the  fiord 
called  Seydis  fiord. 

There  the  same  night  they  dropped  anchor  in  a  good  sound,  and 
went  instantly  to  prayer,  to  praise  God  for  His  delivery  of  them, 
and  Adam  called  the  haven  where  they  moored  "The  Harbor  of 
Good  Providence."  So  with  cheerful  spirits,  thinking  themselves 
indifferently  safe,  they  sought  their  berths,  and  so  ended  the  first 
part  of  their  peril  in  God's  mercy  and  salvation. 

But  the  storm  that  had  driven  them  into  their  place  of  refuge 
drove  their  dread  enemy  after  them,  and  in  the  night,  while  they 


23o  THE   BONDMAN 

lay  in  the  first  sleep  of  four  days,  the  ice  encompassed  them  and 
crushed  them  against  the  rocks.  The  blow  struck  Adam  out  of  a 
tranquil  rest,  and  he  thought  nothing  better  than  that  he  was  awak- 
ening for  another  world.  All  hands  were  called  to  the  pumps,  for 
the  master  still  thought  the  ship  was  stanch  and  might  be  pushed 
along  the  coast  by  the  shoulders  with  crows  of  iron,  and  thus  ride 
out  to  sea.  But  though  they  worked  until  the  pumps  sucked,  it 
was  clear  that  the  poor  vessel  was  stuck  fast  in  the  ice,  and  that 
she  must  soon  get  her  death-wound.  So,  at  break  of  day,  the 
master  and  crew,  with  Adam  Fairbrother,  took  what  they  could 
carry  of  provisions  and  clothes,  and  clambered  ashore,  leaving  the 
ship  to  her  fate. 

It  was  a  bleak  and  desolate  coast  they  had  landed  upon,  with 
never  a  house  in  sight,  never  a  cave  that  they  might  shelter  in,  or 
a  stone  that  would  cover  them  against  the  wind;  with  nothing 
around  save  the  bare  face  of  a  broad  fell,  black  and  lifeless,  strewn 
over  with  small  light  stones  sucked  full  of  holes  like  the  honey- 
comb, but  without  trees,  or  bush,  or  grass,  or  green  moss.  And 
there  they  suffered  more  privations  than  it  is  needful  to  tell,  wait- 
ing for  the  ice  to.  break,  looking  on  at  its  many  colors  of  blue,  and 
purple,  and  emerald  green,  and  yellow,  and  its  many  strange  and 
wonderful  shapes,  resembling  churches,  and  castles,  and  spires,  and 
turrets,  and  cities,  all  ablaze  in  the  noonday  sun. 

They  built  themselves  a  rude  hut  of  the  stones  like  pumice,  and, 
expecting  the  dissolution  of  the  ice,  they  kept  watch  on  their  ship, 
which  itself  looked  like  an  iceberg  frozen  into  a  ship's  shape.  And 
meantime  some  of  their  company  suffered  very  sorely.  Though  the 
year  was  not  yet  far  advanced  toward  winter,  some  of  the  men 
swooned  of  the  cold  that  came  up  from  the  ice  of  the  fiord;  the 
teeth  of  others  became  loose  and  the  flesh  of  their  gums  fell  away, 
and  on  the  soles  of  the  feet  of  a  few  the  frost  of  the  nights  raised 
blisters  as  big  as  walnuts. 

Partly  from  these  privations  and  partly  from  loss  of  heart  when 
at  last  one  evil  day  he  saw  his  good  ship  crushed  to  splinters  against 
the  rocks,  the  master  fell  sick,  and  was  brought  so  low  that  in  less 
than  a  week  he  lay  expecting  his  good  hour.  And  feeling  his  ex- 
tremity he  appointed  Adam  to  succeed  him  as  director  of  the  com- 
pany, to  guide  them  to  safety  over  the  land,  since  Providence  for- 
bade that  they  should  sail  on  the  seas.  Then,  all  being  done,  so 
far  as  his  help  could  avail,  he  stretched  himself  out  for  his  end, 
only  praying  in  his  last  hours  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  drink  as 
much  ale  as  he  liked  from  the  ship's  stores  that  had  been  saved. 
This  Adam  ordered  that  he  should,  and  a?  Vmg  as  he  lived  the  ale 


THE   BONDMAN  231 

was  brought  to  him  in  the  hut  where  he  lay,  and  he  drank  it  until, 
between  draft  and  draft,  it  froze  in  the  jug  at  his  side.  After 
that  he  died — an  honest,  a  worthy,  and  strong-hearted  man. 

And  Adam,  being  now  by  choice  of  the  late  master  and  consent 
of  his  crew  the  leader  of  the  company,  began  to  make  a  review 
of  all  men  and  clothes  and  victuals,  and  found  that  there  were 
eleven  of  them  in  all,  with  little  more  than  they  stood  up  in,  and 
provisions  to  last  them,  with  sparing,  three  weeks  at  utmost.  And 
seeing  that  they  were  cut  off  from  all  hope  of  a  passage  by  sea, 
he  set  himself  to  count  the  chances  of  a  journey  by  land,  and  by 
help  of  the  ship's  charts  and  much  beating  of  the  wings  of  memory 
to  recover  what  he  had  learned  of  Iceland  in  the  days  when  his 
dear  lad  Sunlocks  had  left  him  for  these  shores,  he  reckoned  that 
by  following  the  sea  line  under  the  feet  of  the  great  Vatna-Jokull, 
they  might  hope,  if  they  could  hold  out  so  long,  to  reach  Reykjavik 
at  last.  Long  and  weary  the  journey  must  be,  with  no  town  and 
scarce  a  village  to  break  it,  and  no  prospect  of  shelter  by  the  way, 
save  what  a  few  farms  might  give  them.  So  Adam  ordered  the 
carpenter  to  recover  what  he  could  of  the  ship's  sails  to  make  a 
tent,  and  of  its  broken  timbers  to  make  a  cart  to  carry  victuals, 
and  when  this  was  done  they  set  off  along  the  fell-side  on  the  first 
stage  of  their  journey. 

The  same  day,  toward  nightfall,  they  came  upon  a  little  group 
of  grass-covered  houses  at  the  top  of  the  fiord,  and  saw  the  people 
of  Iceland  for  the  first  time.  They  were  a  little  colony  cut  off  by 
impassable  mountains  from  their  fellows  within  the  island,  and 
having  no  ships  in  which  they  dare  venture  .to  their  kind  on  the 
seas  without;  tall  and  strong-limbed  in  their  persons,  commonly 
of  yellow  hair,  but  sometimes  of  red,  of  which  neither  sex  was 
ashamed;  living  on  bread  that  was  scarce  eatable,  being  made  of 
fish  that  had  been  dried  and  powdered;  lazy  and  unclean;  squalid 
and  mean-spirited,  and  with  the  appearance  of  being  depressed 
and  kept  under.  It  was  a  cheerless  life  they  lived  at  the  feet  of 
the  great  ice-bound  jokull  and  the  margin  of  the  frozen  sea,  so 
that  looking  around  on  the  desolate  place  and  the  dumb  wilderness 
of  things  before  and  behind,  Adam  asked  himself  why  and  how  any 
living  souls  had  ever  ventured  there. 

But  for  all  that  the  little  colony  were  poor  and  wretched,  the 
hearts  of  the  shipwrecked  company  leaped  up  at  sight  of  them,  and 
in  the  joyful  gabble  of  unintelligible  speech  between  them  old 
Adam  found  that  he  could  understand  some  of  the  words.  And 
when  the  islanders  saw  that  in  some  sort  Adam  understood  them 
they  singled  him  out  from  the  rest  of  his  company,  falling  on  his 


232  THE   BONDMAN 

neck  and  kissing  him  after  the  way  of  their  nation,  and  concluding 
among  themselves  that  he  was  one  of  their  own  people  who  had 
gone  away  in  his  youth  and  never  been  heard  of  after.  And  Adam, 
though  he  looked  shy  at  their  musty  kisses,  was  nothing  loth  to 
allow  that  they  might  be  Manxmen  strayed  and  lost. 

For  Adam  and  his  followers  two  things  came  of  this  encounter, 
and  the  one  was  to  forward  and  the  other  to  retard  their  journey. 
The  first  was  that  the  islanders  sold  them  twelve  ponies,  of  the 
small  breed  that  abound  in  that  latitude,  and  gave  them  a  guide 
to  lead  them  the  nearest  way  to  the  capital.  The  ponies  cost  them 
forty  kroner,  or  more  than  two  pounds  apiece,  and  the  guide  was  to 
stand  to  them  in  two  kroner,  or  two  shillings,  a  day.  This  took 
half  of  all  they  had  in  money,  and  many  were  the  heavy  groans 
of  the  men  at  parting  with  it;  but  Adam  argued  that  their  money 
was  of  no  other  value  there  than  as  a  help  out  of  their  extremity, 
and  that  all  the  gold  in  the  banks,  if  he  had  it,  would  be  less  to 
him  then  than  the  little  beast  he  was  bestriding. 

The  second  of  the  two  things  that  followed  on  that  meeting  with 
the  islanders  was  that,  just  as  they  had  started  afresh  on  their  way, 
now  twelve  in  all,  each  man  on  his  horse,  and  a  horse  in  the  shafts 
of  the  cart  that  held  the  victuals,  a  woman  came  running  after 
them  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  and  besought  them  to  take  her  with 
them.  That  any  one  could  wish  to  share  their  outcast  state  was 
their  first  surprise,  but  the  woman's  terrified  looks,  her  tears  and 
passionate  pleadings,  seemed  to  say  that  to  be  homeless  and  house- 
less on  the  face  of  that  trackless  land  was  not  so  awful  a  fate  but 
that  other  miseries  could  conquer  the  fear  of  it.  So,  failing  to 
learn  more  of  her  condition  than  that  she,  was  friendless  and  alone, 
Adam  ordered  that,  with  her  child,  she  should  be  lifted  into  the 
cart  that  was  driven  ahead  of  them. 

But  within  an  hour  they  were  overtaken  by  a  man,  who  came 
galloping  after  them,  and  said  the  woman  had  stolen  the  child — 
that  it  was  his  child,  and  that  he  had  come  to  carry  it  back  with 
him.  At  that  Adam  called  on  the  woman  to  answer  through  the 
guide,  and  she  said  that  the  man  was  indeed  the  child's  father,  but 
that  she  was  its  mother ;  that  he  was  a  farmer,  and  had  married  her 
only  that  he  might  have  a  son  to  leave  his  farm  to;  that  having 
given  him  this  child  he  had  turned  her  out  of  doors,  and  that  in 
love  and  yearning  for  her  little  one,  from  whom  she  had  been  so 
cruelly  parted,  she  had  stolen  into  her  old  home,  plucked  up  the 
babe  and  run  away  with  it.  Hearing  this  story,  which  the  woman 
told  through  her  tears,  Adam  answered  the  man  that  if  the  law  of 
his  country  allowed  a  father  to  deal  so  with  the  mother  of  his 


THE   BONDMAN  233 

child  it  was  a  base  and  unnatural  law,  and  merited  the  obedience 
of  no  man;  so  he  meant  to  protect  the  woman  against  both  it  and 
him,  and  carry  her  along  with  their  company.  With  that  answer 
the  man  turned  tail,  but  Adam's  victory  over  him  was  dearly 
bought,  at  the  cost  of  much  vexation  afterward  and  sore  delay  on 
the  hard  journey. 

And  now  it  would  be  long  to  tell  of  the  trials  of  that  passage 
over  those  gaunt  solitudes,  where  there  was  no  finger-post  or  mark 
of  other  human  travelers.  The  men  bore  up  bravely,  loving  most 
to  comfort  the  woman  and  do  her  any  tender  office,  or  carry  her 
child  before  them  on  their  saddles.  And  many  a  time,  at  sight  of 
the  little  one,  and  at  hearing  its  simple  prattle  in  a  tongue  they  did 
not  understand,  the  poor  fellows  would  burst  into  tears,  as  if  re- 
membering, with  a  double  pang,  that  they  were  exiles  from  that 
country  far  away,  where  other  mothers  held  their  own  children 
to  their  breasts.  Two  of  them  sickened  of  the  cold,  and  had  to  be 
left  behind  at  a  farm,  where  the  people  were  kind  and  gentle  and 
promised  to  nurse  them  until  their  companions  could  return  for 
them.  But  the  heaviest  blow  to  all  that  company  was  the  sickness 
and  death  of  the  child.  Tenderly  the  rude  sailor  men  nursed  the 
little  fellow  one  by  one,  and  when  nothing  availed  to  keep  his  sweet 
face  among  them  they  mourned  his  loss  as  the  worst  disaster  that 
had  yet  befallen  them.  The  mother  herself  was  distraught,  and  in 
the  madness  of  her  agony  turned  on  Adam  and  reproached  him, 
saying  he  had  brought  her  child  into  this  wilderness  to  kill  it. 
Adam  understood  her  misery  too  well  to  rebuke  her  ingratitude, 
and  the  same  night  that  her  babe  was  laid  in  his  rest  with  a  cross 
of  willow  wood  to  mark  the  place  of  it,  she  disappeared  from  their 
company,  and  where  she  went  or  what  became  of  her  no  one  knew, 
for  she  was  seen  by  them  no  more. 

But  next  morning  they  were  overtaken  by  a  number  of  men 
riding  hard,  and  one  of  them  was  the  woman's  husband,  and  an- 
other the  High  Sheriff  of  the  Quarter.  These  two  called  on  Adam 
to  deliver  up  the  child,  and  when  he  told  them  that  it  was  dead, 
and  the  mother  gone,  the  husband  would  have  fallen  upon  him  with 
his  knife,  but  for  the  Sheriff,  who,  keeping  the  peace,  said  that,  as 
accessory  after  the  fact  of  theft,  Adam  himself  must  go  to  prison. 

Now,  at  this  the  crew  of  the  ship  began  to  set  up  a  woful  wail, 
and  to  double  their  fists  and  measure  the  strength  of  nine  sturdy 
British  seamen  against  that  of  ten  lanky  Icelanders.  But  Adam  re- 
strained them  from  violence,  and  indeed  there  was  need  for  none, 
for  the  Sheriff  was  in  no  mood  to  carry  his  prisoner  away  with 
him.  All  he  did  was  to  take  out  his  papers,  and  fill  them  up  with 


234 


THE   BONDMAN 


the  name  and  description  that  Adam  gave  him,  and  then  hand  them 
over  to  Adam  himself,  saying  they  were  the  warrant  for  his  im- 
prisonment, and  that  he  was  to  go  on  his  way  until  he  came  to  the 
next  district,  where  there  was  a  house  of  detention,  which  the  guide 
would  find  for  him,  and  there  deliver  up  the  documents  to  the 
Sheriff  in  charge. 

With  such  instructions,  and  never  doubting  but  they  would  be 
followed,  the  good  man  and  his  people  wheeled  about,  and  re- 
turned as  they  came. 

And  being  so  easily  rid  of  them  the  sailors  began  to  laugh  at 
their  simpleness,  and,  with  many  satisfied  grunts,  to  advise  the 
speedy  destruction  of  the  silly  warrant  that  was  the  sole  witness 
against  Adam.  But  Adam  himself  said,  no — that  he  was  touched 
by  the  simplicity  of  a  people  that  could  trust  a  man  to  take  him- 
self to  prison,  and  he  would  not  wrong  that  confidence  by  any 
cheating.  So  he  ordered  the  guide  to  lead  on  where  he  had  been 
directed. 

They  reached  the  prison  toward  nightfall,  and  there  old  Adam 
bade  a  touching  farewell  of  his  people,  urging  them  not  to  wait 
for  him,  but  to  push  on  to  Reykjavik,  where  alone  they  could  find 
ships  to  take  them  home  to  England.  And  some  of  the  good  fel- 
lows wept  at  this  parting,  though  they  all  thought  it  foolish,  but 
one  old  salt  named  Chaise  shed  no  tears,  and  only  looked  crazier 
than  ever,  and  chuckled  within  himself  from  some  dark  cause. 

And  indeed  there  was  small  reason  to  weep,  because,  simple 
as  the  first  Sheriff's  conduct  had  been,  that  of  the  second  Sheriff 
was  yet  simpler,  for  when  Adam  presented  himself  as  a  prisoner 
the  Sheriff  asked  for  his  papers,  and  then  diving  into  his  pocket 
to  find  them,  the  good  man  found  that  they  were  gone — lost,  dropped 
by  the  way  or  destroyed  by  accident — and  no  search  sufficed  to  re- 
cover them.  So  failing  of  his  warrant  the  Sheriff  shook  his  head 
at  Adam's  story  and  declined  to  imprison  him,  and  the  prisoner 
had  no  choice  but  to  go  free.  Thus  Adam  returned  to  his  com- 
pany, who  heard  with  laughter  and  delight  of  the  close  of  his 
adventure,  all  save  Chaise,  who  looked  sheepish  and  edged  away 
whenever  Adam  glanced  at  him.  Thus  ended  in  merriment  an 
incident  that  threatened  many  evil  consequences,  and  was  attended 
by  two  luckless  mischances. 

The  first  of  these  two  was  that,  by  going  to  the  prison,  which 
lay  three  Danish  miles  out  of  the  direct  track  to  the  capital,  Adam 
and  his  company  had  missed  young  Oscar  and  Zoega's  men,  whom 
Michael  Sunlocks  had  sent  out  from  Reykjavik  in  search  of  them. 
The  second  was  that  their  guide  had  disappeared  and  left  them, 


THE   BONDMAN  235 

within  an  hour  of  bringing  them  to  the  door  of  the  Sheriff.  His 
name  was  Jonas;  he  had  been  an  idle  and  a  selfish  fellow;  he  had 
demanded  his  wages  day  by  day ;  and  seeing  Adam  part  from  the 
rest,  he  had  concluded  that  with  the  purse-bearer  the  purse  of  the 
company  had  gone.  But  he  alone  had  known  the  course,  and, 
worthless  as  he  had  been  to  them  in  other  ways,  the  men  began  to 
rail  at  him  when  they  found  that  he  had  abandoned  them  and  left 
them  to  struggle  on  without  help. 

"The  sweep !"  "the  thief !"  "the  waistrel !"  "the  gomerstang !" 
they  called  him,  with  wilder  names  beside.  But  old  Adam  rebuked 
them  and  said,  "Good  friends,  I  would  persuade  myself  that  urgent 
reasons  alone  can  have  induced  this  poor  man  to  leave  us.  Were 
we  not  ourselves  constrained  to  forsake  two  of  our  number  several 
days  back,  though  with  the  full  design  of  returning  to  them  to  aid 
them  when  it  should  lie  in  our  power?  Thus  I  can  not  blame  the 
Icelander  without  more  knowledge  of  his  intent,  and  so  let  us  push 
on  still  and  trust  in  God  to  deliver  us,  as  he  surely  .will." 

And,  sure  enough,  the  next  day  after  they  came  upon  a  man 
who  undertook  the  place  of  the  guide  who  had  forsaken  them.  He 
was  a  priest  and  a  very  learned  man,  but  poor  as  the  poorest  farmer. 
He  spoke  in  Latin,  and  in  imperfect  Latin  Adam  made  shift  to  an- 
swer him.  His  clothes  were  all  but  worn  to  rags,  and  he  was  shoe- 
ing his  horse  in  the  little  garth  before  his  door.  His  house,  which 
stood  alone  save  for  the  wooden  church  beside  it,  looked  on  the 
outside  like  a  line  of  grass  cones,  hardly  higher  to  their  peaks  than 
the  head  of  a  tall  man,  and  in  the  inside  it  was  low,  dark,  noisome, 
and  noisy.  In  one  room  to  which  Chaise  and  the  seamen  were 
taken,  three  or  four  young  children  were  playing,  an  old  woman 
was  spinning,  and  a  younger  woman,  the  priest's  wife,  was  washing 
clothes.  This  was  the  living-room  and  sleeping-room,  the  birth- 
room  and  death-room  of  the  whole  family.  In  another  room,  to 
which  Adam  was  led  by  the  priest  himself,  the  floor  was  strewn 
with  saddles,  nails,  hammers,  horseshoes,  whips,  and  spades,  and 
the  walls  were  covered  with  bookshelves,  whereon  stood  many 
precious  old  black-letter  volumes.  This  was  the  workshop  and 
study,  wherein  the  good  priest  spent  his  long,  dark  days  of  winter. 

And,  being  once  more  fully  equipped  for  the  journey,  Adam 
ordered  that  they  should  lose  no  time  in  setting  out  afresh,  with 
the  priest  on  his  own  pony  in  front  of  them.  Two  days  then 
passed  without  misadventure  of  any  kind,  and  in  that  time  they 
had  come  to  a  village,  at  which  they  should  have  forsaken  the 
coast  line  and  made  for  the  interior,  in  order  that  they  might  cross 
to  Reykjavik  by  way  of  Thingvellir,  and  so  cut  off  the  peninsula 


236  THE   BONDMAN 

ending  in  the  Smoky  Point.  But  a  heavy  fall  of  snow  coming  down 
suddenly,  they  were  compelled  to  seek  shelter  at  a  farm,  the  only 
one  for  more  than  a  hundred  miles  to  east  or  west  of  them.  There 
they  rested  while  the  snowstorm  lasted,  and  it  was  the  same  weary 
downfall  that  kept  Greeba  to  her  house  while  Red  Jason  lay  in  his 
brain  fever  in  the  cell  in  the  High  Street,  and  Michael  Sunlocks 
was  out  on  the  sea  in  search  of  themselves. 

And  when  the  snow  had  ceased  to  fall,  and  the  frost  that  fol- 
lowed had  hardened  it,  and  the  country,  now  white  instead  of 
black,  was  again  fit  to  travel  upon,  it  was  found  that  the  priest 
was  unwilling  to  start.  Then  it  appeared  that  downright  drinking 
had  been  his  sole  recreation  and  his  only  bane ;  that  the  most  seri- 
ous affairs  of  night  and  day  had  always  submitted  to  this  great 
business ;  that  in  the  interval  of  waiting  for  the  passing  of  the 
snow,  finding  himself  with  a  few  kroner  at  command,  he  had  begun 
on  his  favorite  occupation,  and  that  he  now  was  too  deeply  im- 
mersed therein  to  be  disturbed  in  less  than  a  week. 

Once  again  the  seamen  railed  at  their  guide,  as  well  as  at  the 
whole  race  of  Icelanders,  but  Adam  was  all  for  lenity  toward  the 
priest  and  hope  for  themselves. 

"My  faithful  companions,"  he  said,  "be  not  dismayed  by  any 
of  these  disasters,  but  let  us  put  our  whole  trust  in  God.  If  it  be 
our  fortune  to  end  our  days  in  this  desolate  land,  we  are  as  near 
heaven  here  as  at  home.  Yet  let  us  use  all  honest  efforts  to  save 
our  natural  lives,  and  we  are  not  yet  so  far  past  hope  of  doing  so 
but  that  I  see  a  fair  way  by  which  we  may  effect  it." 

With  that  they  set  out  again  alone,  and  within  an  hour  they 
had  fallen  on  the  second  mischance  of  their  journey,  for  failing  to 
find  the  pass  that  would  have  led  them  across  country  through 
Thingvellir,  they  kept  close  by  the  sea  line  in  the  direction  of  the 
Smoky  Point. 

Now  these  misadventures,  first  with  the  mother  and  child,  next 
with  the  Sheriffs,  and  then  with  the  guides,  though  they  kept  back 
Adam  and  his  company  from  that  quick  deliverance  which  they 
would  have  found  in  meeting  with  the  messengers  of  Michael  Sun- 
locks  or  with  Michael  Sunlocks  himself,  yet  brought  them  in  the 
end  in  the  way  of  the  only  persons  who  are  important  to  this 
story.  For  pursuing  their  mistaken  way  by  the  line  of  sea  they 
came  upon  the  place  called  Krisuvik.  It  was  a  grim  wilderness  of 
awful  things,  not  cold  and  dead  and  dumb  like  the  rest  of  that 
haggard  land,  but  hot  and  alive  with  inhuman  fire  and  clamorous 
with  devilish  noises.  A  wide  ashen  plain  within  a  circle  of  hills 
whereon  little  snow  could  rest  for  the  furnace  that  raged  beneath 


THE   BONDMAN  237 

the  surface;  shooting  with  shrill  whistles  its  shafts  of  hot  steam 
from  a  hundred  fumaroles;  bubbling  up  in  a  thousand  jets  of  boil- 
water;  hissing  from  a  score  of  green  caldrons;  grumbling  low 
with  mournful  sounds  underneath  like  the  voice  of  subterranean 
wind,  and  sending  up  a  noxious  stench  through  heavy  whorls  of 
vapor  that  rolled  in  a  fetid  atmosphere  overhead.  Oh,  it  was  a 
fearsome  place,  like  nothing  on  God's  earth  but  a  moldering  wreck 
of  human  body,  vast  and  shapeless,  and  pierced  deep  with  foulest 
ulcers ;  a  leper  spot  on  earth's  face ;  a  seething  vat  full  of  broth  of 
hell's  own  brewing.  And  all  around  was  the  peaceful  snow,  and 
beyond  the  lines  of  the  southern  hills  was  the  tranquil  sea,  and 
within  the  northern  mountains  was  a  quiet  lake  of  water  as  green 
as  the  grass  of  spring. 

Coming  upon  the  ghastly  place,  printed  deep  with  Satan's  own 
features  on  the  face  of  it,  Adam  thought  that  surely  no  human 
footstep  was  ever  meant  by  God  to  echo  among  bodeful  noises. 
But  there  he  found  two  wooden  sheds  busy  with  troops  of  men 
coming  and  going  about  them,  and  a  third  house  of  the  same  kind 
in  an  early  stage  of  building.  Then  asking  questions  as  well  as 
he  was  able,  he  learned  that  the  boiling  pits  were  the  Sulphur  Mines 
that  the  new  Governor,  the  President  of  the  Republic,  had  lately 
turned  to  account  as  a  penal  settlement,  that  the  two  completed 
sheds  were  the  workshops  and  sleeping  places  of  the  prisoners, 
and  that  the  unfinished  house  was  intended  for  their  hospital. 

And  it  so  chanced  that  while  with  his  poor  broken  company 
Adam  rested  on  his  horse,  to  look  on  at  this  sight  with  eyes  of 
wonder  and  fear,  a  gang  of  four  prisoners  passed  on  to  their  work 
in  charge  of  as  many  warders,  and  one  of  the  four  men  was  Red 
Jason.  His  long  red  hair  was  gojne,  his  face  was  thin  and  pale 
instead  of  full  and  tawny,  and  his  eyes,  once  so  bright,  were  heavy 
and  slow.  He  walked  in  file,  and  about  his  neck  was  a  collar  of 
iron,  with  a  bow  coming  over  his  head  and  ending  on  the  fore- 
head in  a  bell  that  rang  as  he  went  along.  The  wild  vitality  of  his 
strong  figure  seemed  lost,  he  bent  forward  as  he  walked,  and 
looked  steadfastly  on  the  ground. 

Yet,  changed  as  he  was,  Adam  knew  him  at  a  glance,  and  be- 
tween surprise  and  terror,  called  on  him  by  his  name.  But  Jason 
heard  nothing,  and  strode  on  like  a  man  who  had  suddenly  become 
'deaf  and  blind  under  the  shock  of  some  evil  day. 

"Jason!  Jason!"  Adam  cried  again,  and  he  dropped  from  the 
saddle  to  run  toward  him.  But  the  warders  raised  their  hands  to 
warn  the  old  man  off,  and  Jason  went  on  between  them,  without 
ever  lifting  his  eyes  or  making  sign  or  signal. 


238  THE   BONDMAN 

"Now,  God  save  us !  what  can  this  mean  ?"  cried  Adam ;  and 
though  with  the  lame  help  of  his  "old  Manx"  he  questioned  as  well 
as  he  was  able  the  men  who  were  at  work  at  the  building  of  the 
hospital,  nothing  could  he  learn  but  one  thing,  and  that  was  the 
strange  and  wondrous  chance  that  his  own  eyes  revealed  to  him: 
namely,  that  the  last  face  he  saw  as  he  was  leaving  Man,  on  that 
bad  night  when  he  stole  away  from  Greeba  while  she  slept,  was  the 
first  face  he  had  seen  to  know  it  since  he  set  foot  on  Iceland. 

Nor  was  this  surprise  the  only  one  that  lay  waiting  for  him  in 
that  gaunt  place.  Pushing  on  toward  Reykjavik,  the  quicker  for 
this  sight  of  Red  Jason,  and  with  many  troubled  thoughts  of 
Michael  Sunlocks,  Adam  came  with  his  company  to  the  foot  of 
the  mountain  that  has  to  be  crossed  before  the  lava  plain  is 
reached  which  leads  to  the  capital.  And  there  the  narrow  pass 
was  blocked  to  them  for  half  an  hour  of  precious  time  by  a  long 
train  of  men  and  ponies  coming  down  the  bridle  path.  They  were 
Danes,  to  the  number  of  fifty  at  least,  mounted  on  as  many  horses, 
and  with  a  score  of  tired  horses  driven  on  ahead  of  them.  What 
their  work  and  missions  were  in  that  grim  waste  Adam  could  not 
learn  until  he  saw  that  the  foremost  of  the  troop  had  drawn  up 
at  one  of  the  two  wooden  sheds,  and  then  he  gathered  from  many 
signs  that  they  were  there  as  warders  to  take  charge  of  the  set- 
tlement in  place  of  the  Icelandic  officers  who  had  hitherto  held 
possession  of  it. 

Little  time  he  had,  however,  to  learn  the  riddle  of  these  strange 
doings,  or  get  knowledge  of  the  double  rupture  of  the  state  of  affairs 
that  had  caused  them,  for  presently  old  Chaise  came  hurrying  back 
to  him  from  some  distance  ahead,  with  a  scared  face  and  stam- 
mering tongue,  and  one  nervous  hand  pointing  upward  to  where 
the  last  of  the  men  and  horses  were  coming  down  the  bridle  path. 

"Lord-a-massy,  who's  this?"  cried  Chaise;  and  following  the 
direction  of  his  hand  Adam  saw  what  the  old  fellow  pointed  at, 
and  the  sight  seemed  to  freeze  the  blood  at  his  heart. 

It  was  Michael  Sunlocks  riding  between  two  of  the  Danish 
warders  as  their  prisoner,  silent,  fettered,  and  bound. 

Then  Adam  felt  as  if  he  had  somewhere  fallen  into  a  long 
sleep,  and  was  now  awakening  to  a  new  life  in  a  new  world,  where 
the  people  were  the  same  as  in  the  old  one,  but  everything  about 
them  was  strange  and  terrible.  But  he  recovered  from  his  terror 
as  Michael  Sunlocks  came  on,  and  he  called  to  him,  and  Sunlocks 
heard  him,  and  turned  toward  him  with  a  look  of  joy  and  pain 
in  one  quick  glance  of  a  moment. 

"My  son!  my  boy!"  cried  Adam. 


THE   BONDMAN  239 

"Father !  Father !"  cried  Michael  Sunlocks. 

But  in  an  instant  the  warders  had  closed  about  Sunlocks,  and 
hurried  him  on  in  the  midst  of  them,  while  their  loud  shouts 
drowned  all  other  voices. 

And  when  the  troop  had  passed  him,  Adam  sat  a  moment  silent 
on  his  little  beast,  and  then  he  turned  to  his  company  and  said : 

"My  good  friends  and  faithful  companions,  my  journey  is  at  an 
end,  and  you  must  go  on  without  me.  I  came  to  this  land  of  Iceland 
only  to  find  one  who  is  my  son  indeed,  though  not  flesh  of  my  flesh, 
thinking  to  rest  my  old  arm  on  his  young  shoulder.  I  have  found 
him  now,  but  he  is  in  trouble,  from  some  cause  that  I  have  yet  to 
learn,  and  it  is  my  old  shoulder  that  his  young  arm  must  rest  upon. 
And  this  that  you  have  witnessed  is  not  the  meeting  I  looked  for, 
and  built  my  hopes  on,  and  buoyed  up  my  failing  spirits  with, 
through  all  the  trouble  of  our  many  weary  days.  But  God's  will  be 
done !  So  go  your  way,  and  leave  me  where  His  wisdom  has 
brought  me,  and  may  His  mercy  fetch  you  in  safety  to  your  native 
country,  and  to  the  good  souls  waiting  for  you  there." 

But  the  rough  fellows  protested  that  come  what  might,  leave 
him  they  never  would,  and  old  Chaise  without  more  ado  began  to 
make  ready  to  pitch  their  tent  on  the  thin  patch  of  grass  where 
they  stood. 

And  that  evening,  while  Adam  wandered  over  the  valley,  try- 
ing to  get  better  knowledge  of  the  strange  events  which  he  had 
read  as  if  by  flashes  of  lightning,  and  hearing  in  broken  echoes 
of  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  Republic,  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  Michael 
Sunlocks,  of  the  fall  and  return  of  Jorgen  Jorgensen,  a  more  won- 
drous chance  than  any  that  had  yet  befallen  him  was  fast  coming 
his  way. 

For  late  that  night,  when  he  sat  in  his  grief,  with  his  com- 
panions busied  about  him,  comforting  him  with  what  tender  offices 
and  soft  words  their  courageous  minds  could  think  of,  a  young 
Icelander  came  to  the  gap  of  the  tent  and  asked,  in  broken  En- 
glish, if  they  would  give  a  night's  shelter  to  a  lady  who  could  find 
no  other  lodging,  and  was  alone  save  for  himself,  who  had  been 
her  guide  from  Reykjavik. 

At  that  word  Adam's  own  troubles  were  gone  from  him  in  an 
instant,  and  though  his  people  would  have  demurred,  he  called 
on  the  Icelander  to  fetch  the  lady  in,  and  presently  she  came,  and 
then  all  together  stood  dumfounded,  for  the  lady  was  Greeba 
herself. 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell  how  at  first  every  other  feeling  was 
lost  in  one  of  surprise  at  the  strange  meeting  of  father  and  daugh- 


240  THE   BONDMAN 

ter,  how  surprise  gave  place  to  joy,  and  joy  to  pain,  as  bit  by  bit 
the  history  of  their  several  adventures  was  unfolded  each  to  the 
other.  And  while  Greeba  heard  of  the  mischances  that  had  over- 
taken old  Adam,  he,  on  his  part,  heard  of  the  death  of  her  mother 
and  her  brothers'  ill-usage,  of  the  message  that  came  from  Michael 
Sunlocks  and  her  flight  from  home,  of  how  she  came  to  Iceland  and 
was  married,  and  of  how  Sunlocks  went  in  pursuit  of  himself, 
and,  returning  to  the  capital,  was  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  his 
enemies.  All  the  long  story  of  plot  and  passion  he  heard  in  the 
wild  tangle  of  her  hot  and  broken  words,  save  only  that  part  of 
it.  which  concerned  her  quarrel  with  her  husband;  but  when  he 
mentioned  Red  Jason,  saying  that  he  had  seen  him,  he  heard  that 
sad  passage  of  her  story  also,  told  with  fear  and  many  bitter  tears. 

Adam  comforted  Greeba  with  what  words  of  cheer  he  could 
command,  in  an  hour  when  his  own  heart  was  dark  and  hopeless, 
and  then  amid  the  turmoil  of  so  many  emotions,  the  night  being 
worn  to  midnight,  they  composed  themselves  to  sleep. 

Next  morning,  rising  anxious  and  unrested,  Adam  saw  the 
Icelandic  warders,  who  had  been  supplanted  in  their  employment 
by  the  Danes,  start  away  from  the  settlement  for  their  homes,  and 
after  them  went  a  group  of  the  Danish  prisoners  as  free  men, 
who  had  been  imprisoned  by  the  Republic  as  spies  of  the  Govern- 
ment of  Denmark.  By  this  time  Adam  had  decided  on  his  course. 

"Greeba,"  he  said,  "this  imprisonment  of  Michael  Sunlocks  is 
unjust,  and  I  see  a  way  to  put  an  end  to  it.  No  governor  shall 
sentence  him  without  judge  or  jury.  But  I  will  go  on  to  Reykja- 
vik and  appeal  to  this  Jorgen  Jorgensen.  If  he  will  not  hear  me, 
I  will  appeal  to  his  master,  the  King  of  Denmark.  If  Denmark 
will  not  listen,  I  will  appeal  to  England,  for  Michael  Sunlocks  is 
a  British  subject,  and  may  claim  the  rights  of  an  Englishman.  And 
if  England  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  me,  I  will  addres  my  prayer  to  God, 
who  has  never  yet  failed  to  right  the  wronged,  or  humble  the  arro- 
gance of  the  mighty.  Thank  Heaven,  that  has  brought  me  here. 
I  thought  I  was  coming  to  end  my  days  in  peace  by  his  side  who 
would  shelter  my  poor  foolish  gray  head,  that  had  forgotten  to 
protect  itself.  But  strange  are  the  ways  of  Providence.  God  has 
had  His  own  purposes  in  bringing  me  here  thus  blindfolded,  and, 
thanks  to  His  mercy !  I  am  not  yet  so  old  but  I  may  yet  do  some- 
thing. So  come,  girl,  come,  make  ready,  and  we  will  go  on  our 
great  errand  together." 

But  Greeba  had  her  own  ends  from  the  first  in  following 
Michael  Sunlocks  to  the  place  of  his  imprisonment,  and  she  an- 
swered and  said: 


THE   BONDMAN  241 

"No,  father,  no.  You  may  go  on  to  Reykjavik,  and  do  all  this 
if  you  can,  but  my  place  is  here,  at  my  husband's  side.  He  lost 
faith  in  my  affection,  and  said  I  had  married  him  for  the  glory 
that  his  place  would  bring  me ;  but  he  shall  see  what  a  woman  can 
go  through  for  sake  of  the  man  she  loves.  I  have  my  own  plan  of 
life  in  this  place,  and  the  power  to  carry  it  out.  Therefore  do  not 
fear  to  leave  me,  but  go,  and  God  prosper  you!" 

"Let  it  be  so,"  said  Adam,  and  with  that,  after  some  words  of 
explanation  with  the  brave  fellows  who  had  followed  him  from 
the  hour  when,  as  ship-broken  men,  they  set  out  on  foot  from  the 
eastern  fiord,  he  started  on  his  journey  afresh,  leaving  the  tent  and 
the  last  of  their  ship's  victuals  behind  with  Greeba,  for  Reykjavik 
was  no  more  than  a  day's  ride  from  Krisuvik. 

When  he  was  gone,  Greeba  went  down  to  the  tents  at  the 
mouth  of  the  mines,  and  asked  for  the  Captain.  A  Danish  gentle- 
man who  did  not  know  her,  and  whom  she  did  not  know,  answered 
to  that  title,  and  then  she  said  that  hearing  that  a  hospital  was  being 
built  she  had  come  out  from  Reykjavik  to  offer  herself  as  a  nurse 
if  a  nurse  was  wanted. 

"A  nurse  is  wanted,"  said  the  Captain,  "and  though  we  had  no 
thought  of  a  woman  you  have  come  in  the  nick  of  time." 

So  Greeba,  under  some  assumed  name,  unknown  to  the  contin- 
gent of  Danish  officers  fresh  from  Denmark,  who  had  that  day 
taken  the  places  of  the  Icelandic  warders,  and  recognizable  in  her 
true  character  by  two  men  only  in  Krisuvik,  Michael  Sunlocks  and 
Red  Jason,  if  ever  they  should  see  her,  took  up  her  employment  as 
hospital  nurse  to  the  sick  prisoners  of  tKe  Sulphur  Mines. 

But  having  attained  her  end,  or  tfie  first  part  of  it,  her  heart 
was  torn  by  many  conflicting  feelings.  Would  sh'e  meet  with  her 
husband?  Would  he  come  to  be  in  her  own  charge?  Oh,  God 
forbid  that  it  should  ever  come  to  pass.  Yet  God  grant  it,  too,  for 
that  might  help  him  to  a  swifter  release  than  her  dear  old  father 
could  compass.  Would  she  see  Red  Jason?  Would  Michael  Sun- 
locks  ever  see  him?  OK!  God  forbid  that  also.  And  yet,  and  yet, 
God  grant  it,  after  all. 

Such  were  her  hopes  and  fears,  when  the  hospital  shed  was 
finished,  and  she  took  her  place  within  it.  And  now  let  us  see 
how  Heaven  fulfilled  them. 


11  VoL  II 


242  THE   BONDMAN 


CHAPTER  II 

THE     SULPHUR     MINES 

RED  JASON  and  Michael  Sunlocks  were  together  at  last,  within 
the  narrow  stockade  of  a  penal  settlement.  These  two,  who  had 
followed  each  other  from  land  to  land,  the  one  on  his  errand  of 
vengeance,  the  other  on  his  mission  of  mercy,  both  now  nourish- 
ing hatred  and  lust  of  blood,  were  thrown  as  prisoners  into  the 
Sulphur  Mines  of  Krisuvik.  There  they  met,  they  spoke,  they 
lived  and  worked  side  by  side,  yet  neither  knew  the  other  for  the 
man  he  had  sought  so  long  and  never  found.  This  is  the  strange 
and  wondrous  chance  that  has  now  to  be  recorded,  and  only  to 
think  of  it,  whether  as  accident  or  God's  ordinance,  makes  the 
blood  to  tingle  in  every  vein.  Poor  and  petty  are  the  passions  of 
man,  and  God's  hand  is  over  all. 

The  only  work  of  Michael  Sunlocks  which  Jorgen  Jorgensen 
'did  not  undo  in  the  swift  reprisals  which  followed  on  the  restora- 
tion of  his  power  was  the  use  of  the  Sulphur  Mines  as  a  convict 
settlement.  All  he  did  was  to  substitute  Danish  for  Icelandic 
guards,  but  this  change  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  great 
event  that  followed.  The  Icelandic  guards  knew  Red  Jason,  and  if 
Michael  Sunlocks  had  been  sent  out  to  them  they  would  have 
known  him  also,  and  thus  the  two  men  must  have  soon  known  each 
other.  But  the  Danish  warders  knew  nothing  of  Jason,  and  when 
they  brought  out  Michael  Sunlocks  they  sent  the  Icelandic  guards 
home.  Thus  Jason  never  heard  that  Michael  Sunlocks  was  at  the 
Sulphur  Mines,  and  though  in  the  whirl  of  many  vague  impres- 
sions, the  distant  hum  of  a  world  far  off,  there  floated  into  his 
mind  the  news  of  the  fall  of  the  Republic,  he  could  never  suspect, 
and  there  was  no  one  to  tell  him,  that  the  man  whom  he  had  pur- 
sued and  never  yet  seen,  the  man  he  hated  and  sought  to  slay,  was 
a  convict  like  himself,  working  daily  and 'hourly  within  sight  and 
sound  of  him. 

Michael  Sunlocks,  on  his  part,  knew  well  that  Red  Jason  had 
been  sent  to  the  Sulphur  Mines;  but  he  also  knew  that  he  had 
signed  Jason's  pardon  and  ordered  his  release.  More  than  this,  he 
had  learned  that  Jorgen  Jorgensen  had  liberated  all  who  had  been 


THE   BONDMAN  243 

condemned  by  the  Republic,  and  so  he  concluded  that  Jason  had 
become  a  free  man  when  he  himself  became  a  prisoner.  But  there 
had  been  a  delay  in  the  despatch  of  Jason's  pardon,  and  when  the 
Republic  had  fallen  and  the  Danish  officers  had  taken  the  place 
of  the  Icelanders,  the  captain  of  the  mines  had  released  the  politi- 
cal prisoners  only,  and  Jason,  as  a  felon,  had  been  retained.  The 
other  prisoners  at  the  mines,  some  fifty  in  all,  knew  neither  Michael 
Sunlocks  nor  Red  Jason.  They  were  old  criminals  from  remote 
districts,  sentenced  to  the  jail  at  Reykjavik,  during  the  first  rule  of 
Jorgen  Jorgensen,  and  sent  out  to  Krisuvik  in  the  early  days  of  the 
Republic. 

Thus  it  chanced  from  the  first  tKat  though  together  within  a 
narrow  space  of  ground  Jason  and  Sunlocks  were  cut  off  from  all 
knowledge  of  each  other  such  as  might  have  been  gleaned  from 
those  about  them.  And  the  discipline  of  the  settlement  kept  them 
back  from  that  knowledge  by  keeping  them  for  many  months 
apart. 

The  two  houses  used  as  workshops  and  sleeping  places  were  at 
opposite  sides  of  the  stockade,  one  at  the  north,  the  other  at  the 
south;  one  overlooking  a  broad  waste  of  sea,  the  other  at  the 
margin  of  a  dark  lake  of  gloomy  shore.  Red  Jason  was  assigned 
to  the  house  near  the  sea,  Michael  Sunlocks  to  the  house  by  the 
lake.  These  houses  were  built  of  squared  logs  with  earthen  floors, 
and  wooden  benches  for  beds.  The  prisoners  entered  them  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  left  them  at  five  in  the  morning, 
their  hours  of  labor  in  summer  being  from  five  A.  M.  to  eight  p.  M. 
They  brought  two  tin  cans,  one  tin  containing  their  food,  their 
second  meal  of  the  day,  a  pound  of  stock-fish,  and  four  ounces  of 
bread ;  the  other  tin  intended  for  their  refuse  of  slops  and  victuals 
and  dirt  of  other  kinds.  Each  house  contained  some  twenty-five 
men  and  boys,  and  so  peopled  and  used  they  had  quickly  become 
grimy  and  pestilential,  the  walls  blotched  with  vermin  stains,  the 
floors  encrusted  with  hard-trodden  filth  that  was  wet  and  slippery 
to  the  feet,  and  the  atmosphere  damp  and  foul  to  the  nostrils  from 
the  sickening  odors  of  decayed  food. 

It  had  been  a  regulation  from  the  beginning  that  the  latest 
comer  at  each  of  these  houses  should  serve  three  months  as  house- 
keeper, with  the  duty  of  cleansing  the  horrible  place  every  morning 
after  his  housemates  had  left  it  for  their  work.  During  this  time 
he  wore  the  collar  of  iron  and  the  bell  over  his  forehead,  for  it  was 
his  period  of  probation  and  of  special  degradation.  Thus  Red  Jason 
served  as  housekeeper  in  the  house  by  the  sea,  while  Michael 
Sunlocks  did  the  same  duty  in  the  house  by  the  lake.  Jason  went 


244  THE   BONDMAN 

tfirough  his  work  listlessly,  slowly,  hopelessly,  but  without  a  mur- 
mur. Michael  Sunlocks  rebelled  against  its  horrible  necessities, 
for  every  morning  his  gorge  rose  at  the  exhalations  of  five-and- 
twenty  unwashed  human  bodies,  and  the  insupportable  odor  that 
came  of  their  filthy  habits. 

This  state  of  things  went  on  for  some  two  months,  during  which' 
the  two  men  had  never  met,  and  then  an  accident  led  to  a  change 
in  the  condition  of  both. 

The  sulphur  dug  up  from  the  banks  of  the  hot  springs  was 
packed  in  sacks  and  strapped  upon  ponies,  one  sack  at  each  side 
of  a  pony  and  one  on  its  back,  to  be  taken  to  Hafnafiord,  the  nearest 
port  for  shipment  to  Denmark.  Now  the  sulphur  was  heavy,  the 
sacks  were  large,  the  ponies  small,  and  the  road  down  from  the 
solfataras  to  the  valley  was  rough  with  soft  clay  and  great  basaltic 
boulders.  And  one  day  as  a  line  of  the  ponies  so  burdened  came 
down  the  breast  of  the  mountain,  driven  on  by  a  carrier  who  lashed 
them  at  every  step  with  his  long  whip  of  leather  thongs,  one  little 
piebald  mare,  hardly  bigger  than  a  donkey,  stumbled  into  a  deep 
rut  and  fell.  At  that  the  inhuman  fellow  behind  it  flogged  it  again, 
and  showered  curses  on  it  at  every  blow. 

"Get  up,  get  up,  or  I'll  skin  you  alive,"  he  cried,  with  many  a 
hideous  oath  beside. 

And  at  every  fresh  blow  the  little  piebald  struggled  to  rise,  but 
it  could  not,  while  its  terrified  eyeballs  stood  out  from  the  sockets 
and  its  wide  nostrils  quivered. 

"Get  up,  you  little  lazy  devil,  get  up,"  cried  the  brute  with 
the  whip,  and  still  his  blows  fell  like  raindrops,  first  on  the  mare's 
flanks,  then  on  its  upturned  belly,  then  on  its  head,  its  mouth,  and 
last  of  all  on  its  eyes. 

But  the  poor  creature's  load  held  it  down,  and,  struggle  as  it 
would,  it  could  not  rise.  The  gang  of  prisoners  on  the  hillside 
who  had  just  before  burdened  the  ponies  and  sent  them  off,  heard 
this  lashing  and  swearing,  and  stopped  their  work  to  look  down. 
But  they  thought  more  of  the  carrier  than  of  the  fallen  pony, 
and  laughed  aloud  at  his  vain  efforts  to  bring  it  to  its  feet. 

"Send  him  a  hand  up,  Jonas,"  shouted  one  of  the  fellows. 

"Pick  him  up  in  your  arms,  old  boy,"  shouted  another,  and  at 
every  silly  sally  they  all  roared  together. 

The  jeering  incensed  the  carrier,  and  he  brought  down  his 
whip  the  fiercer  and  quicker  at  every  fresh  blow,  until  the  whizzing 
of  the  lash  sang  in  the  air,  and  the  hills  echoed  with  the  thuds  on 
the  pony's  body.  Then  the  little  creature  made  one  final,  frantic 
effort,  and  plunging  with  its  utmost  strength  it  had  half  risen  to 


THE   BONDMAN  245 

its  forelegs  when  one  of  the  sacks  slid  from  its  place  and  got  under 
its  hind  legs,  whereupon  the  canvas  gave  way,  the  sulphur  fell  out, 
and  the  poor  little  brute  slipped  afresh  and  fell  again,  flat,  full 
length,  and  with  awful  force  and  weight,  dashing  its  head  against 
a  stone.  At  sight  of  this  misadventure  the  prisoners  above  laughed 
once  more,  and  the  carrier  leaped  from  his  own  saddle  and  kicked 
the  fallen  piebald  in  the  mouth. 

Now  this  had  occurred  within  the  space  of  a  stone's  throw  from 
the  house  which  Red  Jason  lived  in  and  cleaned,  and  hearing  the 
commotion  as  he  worked  within  he  had  come  out  to  learn  the  cause 
of  it.  Seeing  everything  in  one  quick  glance,  he  pushed  along  as 
fast  as  he  could  for  the  leg-fetters  that  bound  him,  and  came  upon 
the  carrier  as  he  was  stamping  the  life  out  of  the  pony  with  kicks 
on  its  palpitating  sides.  At  the  next  moment  he  had  laid  the  fel- 
low on  his  back,  and  then,  stepping  up  to  the  piebald,  he  put  his 
arms  about  it  to  lift  it  to  its  feet.  Meantime  the  prisoners  above 
had  stopped  their  laughing,  and  were  looking  on  with  eyes  of 
wonder  at  Jason's  mighty  strength. 

"God !  Is  it  possible  he  is  trying  to  lift  a  horse  to  its  feet?"  cried 
one. 

"What?  and  three  sacks  of  sulphur  as  well?"  cried  another. 

"Never,"  cried  a  third;  and  all  held  their  breath. 

Jason  did  not  stop  to  remove  the  sacks.  He  wound  his  great 
arms  first  under  the  little  beast's  neck,  and  raised  it  to  its  forefeet, 
and  then  squaring  his  broad  flanks  above  his  legs  that  held  the 
ground  like  the  hoofs  of  an  ox,  he  made  one  silent,  slow,  tremen- 
dous upward  movement,  and  in  an  instant  the  piebald  was  on  its 
feet,  affrighted,  trembling,  with  startled  eyeballs  and  panting  nos- 
trils, but  secure  and  safe,  and  with  its  load  squared  and  righted  on 
its  back. 

"Lord  bless  us !"  cried  the  convicts,  "the  man  has  the  strength 
of  Samson." 

And  at  that  moment  one  of  the  warders  came  hurrying  up  to 
the  place. 

"What's  this?"  said  the  warder,  looking  at  the  carrier  on  the 
ground,  who  was  groaning  in  some  little  blood  that  was  flowing 
from  the  back  of  his  head. 

At  that"  question  the  carrier  only  moaned  the  louder,  thinking 
to  excite  the  more  commiseration,  and  Jason  said  not  a  word.  But 
the  prisoners  on  the  hillside  very  eagerly  shouted  an  explanation; 
whereupon  the  carrier,  a  prisoner  who  had  been  indulged,  straight- 
way lost  his  privileges  as  punishment  for  his  ill  use  of  the  property 
of  the  Government ;  and  Jason,  as  a  man  whose  great  muscles  were 


246  THE   BONDMAN 

thrown  away  on  the  paltry  work  of  prison-cleaning,  was  set  to  delv- 
ing sulphur  on  the  banks  of  the  hot  springs. 

Now  this  change  for  the  better  in  the  condition  of  Red  Jason 
led  to  a  change  for  the  worse  in  that  of  Michael  Sunlocks,  for 
when  Jason  was  relieved  of  his  housekeeping  and  of  the  iron  col- 
lar and  bell  that  had  been  the  badge  of  it,  Sunlocks,  as  a  malcon- 
tent, was  ordered  to  clean  Jason's  house  as  well  as  his  own.  But 
so  bad  a  change  led  to  the  great  event  in  the  lives  of  both,  the 
meeting  of  these  men  face  to  face,  and  the  way  of  it  was  this : 

One  day,  the  winter  being  then  fully  come,  the  mornings  dark, 
and  some  new  fallen  snow  lying  deep  over  the  warm  ground  of 
the  stockade,  Michael  Sunlocks  had  been  set  to  clearing  away  from 
the  front  of  the  log  house  on  the  south  before  Jason  and  his  house- 
mates had  come  out  of  it.  His  bodily  strength  had  failed  him  greatly 
by  this  time,  his  face  was  pale,  his  large  eyes  were  swollen  and 
bloodshot,  and  under  the  heavy  labor  of  that  day  his  tall,  slight 
figure  stooped.  But  a  warder  stood  over  him  leaning  on  a  musket 
and  urging  him  on  with  words  that  were  harder  to  him  than  his 
hard  work.  His  bell  rang  as  he  stooped,  and  rang  again  as  he 
rose,  and  at  every  thrust  of  the  spade  it  rang,  so  that  when  Jason 
and  his  gang  came  out  of  the  sickening  house,  he  heard  it.  And 
hearing  the  bell,  he  remembered  that  he  himself  had  worn  it,  and 
wondering  who  had  succeeded  him  in  the  vile  office  whereof  he  had 
been  relieved,  he  turned  to  look  upon  the  man  who  was  clearing 
the  snow. 

There  are  moments  when  the  sense  of  our  destiny  is  strong 
upon  us,  and  this  was  such  a  moment  to  Red  Jason.  He  saw 
Michael  Sunlocks  for  the  first  time,  but  without  knowing  him,  and 
yet  at  that  sight  every  pulse  beat  and  every  nerve  quivered.  A 
great  sorrow  and  a  great  pity  took  hold  of  him.  The  face  he  looked 
upon  moved  him,  the  voice  he  heard  thrilled  him,  and  by  an  im- 
pulse that  he  could  not  resist  he  stopped  and  turned  to  the  warder 
leaning  on  the  musket  and  said: 

"Let  me  do  this  man's  work.  It  would  be  nothing  to  me.  He 
is  ill.  Send  him  up  to  the  hospital." 

"March !"  shouted  his  own  warders  and  they  hustled  him  along, 
and  at  the  next  minute  he  was  gone.  Then  the  bell  stopped  for  an 
instant,  for  Michael  Sunlocks  had  raised  his  head  to  look  upon  the 
man  who  had  spoken.  He  did  not  see  Jason's  face,  but  his  own  face 
softened  at  the  words  he  had  heard  and  his  bloodshot  eyes  grew 
dim. 

"Go  on !"  cried  the  warder  with  the  musket,  and  the  bell  began 
again. 


THE   BONDMAN  247 

All  that  day  the  face  of  Michael  Sunlocks  haunted  the  memory 
of  Red  Jason. 

"Who  was  that  man?"  he  asked  of  the  prisoner  who  worked 
by  his  side. 

"How  should  I  know?"  the  other  fellow  answered  sulkily. 

In  a  space  of  rest  Jason  leaned  on  his  shovel,  wiped  his  brow, 
and  said  to  his  warder:  "What  was  that  man's  name?" 

"A  25,"  the  warder  answered  moodily. 

"I  asked  for  his  name,"  said  Jason. 

"What's  that  to  you?"  replied  the  warder. 

A  week  went  by,  and  the  face  of  Sunlocks  still  haunted  Jason's 
memory.  It  was  with  him  early  and  late,  the  last  thing  that  stood 
up  before  his  inward  eye  when  he  lay  down  to  sleep,  the  first  thing 
that  came  to  him  when  he  awoke;  sometimes  it  moved  him  to 
strange  laughter  when  the  sun  was  shining,  and  sometimes  it 
touched  him  to  tears  when  he  thought  of  it  in  the  night.  Why  was 
this  ?  He  did  not  know,  he  could  not  think,  he  did  not  try  to  find 
out.  But  there  it  was,  a  living  face  burnt  into  his  memory — a  face 
so  strangely  new  to  him,  yet  so  strangely  familiar,  so  unlike  to 
anything  he  had  ever  yet  seen,  and  yet  so  like  to  everything  that 
was  near  and  dear  to  himself,  that  he  could  have  fancied  there 
had  never  been  a  time  when  he  had  not  had  it  by  his  side.  When 
he  put  the  matter  to  himself  so  he  laughed  and  thought  "how 
foolish."  But  no  self-mockery  banished  the  mystery  of  the  power 
upon  him  of  the  man's  face  that  he  saw  for  a  moment  one  morning 
in  the  snow. 

He  threw  off  his  former  listlessness  and  began  to  look  keenly 
about  him.  But  one  week,  two  weeks,  three  weeks  passed,  and  he 
could  nowhere  see  the  same  face  again.  He  asked  questions  but 
learned  nothing.  His  fellow-prisoners  began  to  jeer  at  him.  Upon 
their  souls,  the  big  red  fellow  had  tumbled  into  love  with  the 
young  chap  with  the  long  flaxen  hair,  and  maybe  he  thought  it  was 
a  woman  in  disguise. 

Jason  knocked  their  chattering  heads  together  and  so  stopped 
their  ribald  banter,  but  his  warders  began  to  watch  him  with  sus- 
picion, and  he  fell  back  on  silence. 

A  month  passed,  and  then  the  chain  that  was  slowly  drawing 
the  two  men  together  suddenly  tightened.  One  morning  the  order 
came  down  from  the  office  of  the  Captain  that  the  prisoners'  straw 
beds  were  to  be  taken  out  into  the  stockyard  and  burnt.  The  beds 
were  not  old,  but  dirty  and  damp  and  full  of  foul  odors.  The 
officers  of  the  settlement  said  this  was  due  to  the  filthy  habits  of 
the  prisoners.  The  prisoners  on  their  part  said  it  came  of  the  pes- 


248  THE   BONDMAN 

tilential  hovels  they  were  compelled  to  live  in,  where  the  ground 
was  a  bog,  the  walls  and  roof  were  a  rotten  coffin,  and  the  air 
was  heavy  and  lifeless.  Since  the  change  of  warders,  there  had 
been  a  gradual  decline  in  the  humanity  with  which  they  had 
been  treated,  and  to  burn  up  their  old  beds  without  giving  them  new 
ones  was  to  deprive  them  of  the  last  comfort  that  separated  the 
condition  of  human  beings  from  that  of  beasts  of  the  field. 

But  the  Captain  of  the  Mines  was  in  no  humor  to  bandy  parts 
with  his  prisoners,  and  in  ordering  that  the  beds  should  be  burnt 
to  prevent  an  outbreak  of  disease,  he  appointed  that  the  prisoner 
B  25  should  be  told  off  to  do  the  work.  Now  B  25  was  the  prison 
name  of  Red  Jason,  and  he  was  selected  by  reason  of  his  great 
bodily  strength,  not  so  much  because  the  beds  required  it,  as  from 
fear  of  the  rebellion  of  the  poor  souls  who  were  to  lose  them. 

So  at  the  point  of  a  musket  Red  Jason  was  driven  on  to  his  bad 
work,  and  sullenly  he  went  through  it,  muttering  deep  oaths  from 
between  his  grinding  teeth,  until  he  came  to  the  log  hut  where 
Michael  Sunlocks  slept,  and  there  he  saw  again  the  face  that  had 
haunted  his  memory. 

"This  bed  is  dry  and  sound,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks,  "and  you 
"shall  not  take  it." 

"Away  with  it,"  shouted  the  warder  to  Jason,  who  had  seemed 
to  hesitate. 

"It  is  good  and  wholesome,  let  him  keep  it,"  said  Jason. 

"Go  on  with  your  work,"  cried  the  warder,  and  the  lock  of  his 
musket  clicked. 

"Civilized  men  give  straw  to  their  dogs  to  lie  on,"  said  Michael 
Sunlocks. 

"It  depends  what  dogs   they  are,"  sneered   the  warder. 

"If  you  take  our  beds,  this  place  will  be  worse  than  an  empty 
kennel,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"Better  that  than  the  mange,"  said  the  warder.  "Get  along, 
I  tell  you,"  he  cried  again,  handling  his  musket  and  turning  to 
Jason. 

Then,  with  a  glance  of  loathing,  Jason  picked  up  the  bed  in  his 
fingers,  that  itched  to  pick  up  the  warder  by  the  throat,  and  swept 
out  of  the  place. 

"Slave !"  cried  Michael  Sunlocks  after  him.  "Pitiful,  miserable, 
little-hearted  slave!" 

Jason  heard  the  hot  words  that  pursued  him,  and  his  face  grew 
as  red  as  his  hair,  and  his  head  dropped  into  his  breast.  He  finished 
his  task  in  less  than  half  an  hour  more,  working  like  a  demented 
man  at  piling  up  the  dirty  mattresses  into  a  vast  heap,  and  setting 


THE   BONDMAN  249 

light  to  the  damp  straw.  And  while  the  huge  bonfire  burned,  and 
he  poked  long  poles  into  it  to  give  it  air  to  blaze  by,  he  made  ex- 
cuse of  the  great  heat  to  strip  off  the  long  rough  overcoat  that  had 
been  given  him  to  wear  through  the  hard  months  of  the  winter. 
By  this  time  the  warder  had  fallen  back  from  the  scorching  flames, 
and  Jason,  watching  his  chance,  stole  away  under  cover  of  deep 
whorls  of  smoke,  and  got  back  into  the  log  cabin  unobserved. 

He  found  the  place  empty;  the  man  known  to  him  as  A  25  was 
not  anywhere  to  be  seen.  But  finding  his  sleeping  bunk — a  bare 
slab  resembling  a  butcher's  board — he  stretched  his  coat  over  it 
where  the  bed  had  been,  and  then  fled  away  like  a  guilty  thing. 

When  the  great  fire  had  burned  low  the  warder  returned,  and 
said:  "Quick  there;  put  on  your  coat  and  let's  be  off." 
At  that  Jason  pretended  to  look  about  him  in  dismay. 
"It's  gone,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  astonishment.' 
"Gone?    What?    Have  you  burnt  it  up  with  the  beds?"  cried 
the  warder. 

"Maybe  so,"  said  Jason,  meekly. 

"Fool,"  cried  the  warder ;  "but  it's  your  loss.  Now  you'll  have 
to  go  in  your  sheepskin  jacket,  snow  or  shine." 

With  a  cold  smile  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  Jason  bent  his 
head  and  went  on  ahead  of  his  warder. 

If  the  Captain  of  the  Mines  had  been  left  to  himself  he  might 
have  been  a  just  and  even  a  merciful  man,  but  he  was  badgered  by 
inhuman  orders  from  Jorgen  Jorgensen  at  Reykjavik,  and  one  by 
one  the  common  privileges  of  his  prisoners  were  withdrawn.  As 
a  result  of  his  treatment,  the  prisoners  besieged  him  with  petitions 
as  often  as  he  crossed  their  path.  The  loudest  to  complain  and  the 
most  rebellious  against  petty  tyranny  was  Michael  Sunlocks;  the 
humblest,  the  meekest,  the  most  silent  under  cruel  persecution  was 
Red  Jason.  The  one  seemed  aflame  with  indignation;  the  other 
appeared  destitute  of  all  manly  spirit. 

"That  man  might  be  dangerous  to  the  Government  yet,"  thought 
the  Captain,  after  one  of  his  stormy  scenes  with  Michael  Sunlocks. 
"That  man's  heart  is  dead  within  him,"  he  thought  again,  as  he 
watched  Red  Jason  working  as  he  always  worked,  slowly,  list- 
lessly, and  as  if  tired  out  and  longing  for  the  night. 

The  Captain's  humanity  at  length  prevailed  over  his  Governor's 
rigor,  and  he  developed  a  form  of  penal  servitude  among  the  pris- 
oners which  he  called  the  Free  Command.  This  was  a  plan 
whereby  the  men  whose  behavior  had  been  good  were  allowed  the 
partial  liberty  of  living  outside  the  stockade  in  huts  which  they 
built  for  themselves.  Ten  hours  a  day  they  wrought  at  the  mines, 


250 


THE   BONDMAN 


the  rest  of  the  day  and  night  was  under  their  own  control ;  and  in 
return  for  their  labor  they  were  supplied  with  rations  from  the 
settlement. 

Now  Red  Jason,  as  a  docile  prisoner,  was  almost  the  first  to  get 
promotion  to  the  Free  Command.  He  did  not  ask  for  it,  he  did 
not  wish  for  it,  and  when  it  came  he  looked  askance  at  it. 

"Send  somebody  else,"  he  said  to  his  warders,  but  they  laughed 
and  turned  him  adrift. 

He  began  to  build  his  house  of  the  lava  stones  on  the  mountain 
side,  not  far  from  the  hospital,  and  near  to  a  house  being  built  by 
an  elderly  man  much  disfigured  about  the  cheeks,  who  had  been 
a  priest,  imprisoned  long  ago  by  Jorgen  Jorgensen  out  of  spite 
and  yet  baser  motives.  And  as  he  worked  at  raising  the  walls  of 
his  hut,  he  remembered  with  a  pang  the  mill  he  built  in  Port-y- 
Vullin,  and  what  a  whirlwind  of  outraged  passion  brought  every 
stone  of  it  to  the  ground  again.  With  this  occupation,  and  occa- 
sional gossip  with  his  neighbor,  he  passed  the  evenings  of  his  Free 
Command.  And  looking  toward  the  hospital  as  often  as  he  saw  the 
little  groups  of  men  go  up  to  it  that  told  of  another  prisoner  injured 
in  the  perilous  labor  of  the  sulphur  mines,  he  sometimes  saw  a 
woman  come  out  at  the  door  to  receive  them. 

"Who  is  she  ?"  he  asked  of  the  priest. 

"The  foreign  nurse,"  said  the  priest.  "And  a  right  good  woman, 
too,  as  I  have  reason  to  say,  for  she  nursed  me  back  to  life  after 
that  spurt  of  hot  water  had  scalded  these  holes  into  my  face." 

That  made  Jason  think  of  other  scenes,  and  of  tender  passages 
in  his  broken  life  that  were  gone  from  him  forever.  He  had  no 
wish  to  recall  them;  their  pleasure  was  too  painful,  their  sweets 
too  bitter;  they  were  lost,  and  God  grant  that  they  could  be  for- 
gotten. Yet  every  night  as  he  worked  at  his  walls  he  looked  long- 
ingly across  the  shoulder  of  the  hill  in  the  direction  of  the  hospital, 
half  fancying  he  knew  the  sweet  grace  of  the  figure  he  sometimes 
saw  there,  and  pretending  with  himself  that  he  remembered  the 
light  rhythm  of  its  movement.  After  a  while  he  missed  what  he 
looked  for,  and  then  he  asked  his  neighbor  if  the  nurse  were  ill 
that  he  had  not  seen  her  lately. 

"111?  Well,  yes,"  said  the  old  priest.  "She  has  been  turned 
away  from  the  hospital." 

"What!"  cried  Jason;  "you  thought  her  a  good  nurse." 

"She  was  too  good,  my  lad,"  said  the  priest,  "and  a  blackguard 
warder  who  had  tried  to  corrupt  her,  and  could  not,  announced 
that  somebody  else  had  done  so." 

"It's  a  lie,"  cried  Jason. 


THE   BONDMAN  251 

"It  was  plain  enough,"  said  the  priest,  "that  she  was  about  to 
give  birth  to  a  child,  and  as  she  would  make  no  explanation  she 
was  turned  adrift." 

"Where  is  she  now?"  asked  Jason. 

"Lying  in  at  the  farmhouse  on  the  edge  of  the  snow  yonder,"  j 
said  the  priest.    "I  saw  her  last  night.     She  trusted  me  with  her  : 
story,  and  it  was  straight  and  simple.    Her  husband  had  been  sent 
out  to  the  mines  by  the  old  scoundrel  at  Reykjavik.    She  had  fol- 
lowed him,  only  to  be  near  him  and  breathe  the  air  he  breathed. 
Perhaps  with  some  wild  hope  of  helping  his  escape  she  had  hidden 
her  true  name  and  character  and  taken  the  place  of  a  menial,  being 
a  lady  born." 

"Then  her  husband  is  still  at  the  mines?"  said  Jason. 

"Yes,"  said  the  priest. 

"Does  he  know  of  her  disgrace?" 

"No." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"The  poor  soul  would  give  me  no  name,  but  she  knew  her  hus- 
band's number.  It  was  A25." 

"I  know  him,"  said  Jason. 

Next  day,  his  hut  being  built  and  roofed  after  some  fashion, 
Jason  went  down  to  the  office  of  the  Captain  of  the  Mines  and 
said,  "I  don't  like  the  Free  Command,  sir.  May  I  give  it  up  in 
favor  of  another  man?" 

"And  what  man,  pray?"  asked  the  Captain. 

"A25,"  said  Jason." 

"No,"  said  the  Captain. 

"I've  built  my  house,  sir,"  said  Jason,  "and  if  you  won't  give 
it  to  A2S,  let  the  poor  woman  from  the  hospital  live  in  it,  and  take 
me  back  among  the  men." 

"That  won't  do,  my  lad.  Go  along  to  your  work,"  said  the 
Captain. 

And  when  Jason  was  gone  the  Captain  thought  within  himself, 
"What  does  this  mean?  Is  the  lad  planning  the  man's  escape? 
And  who  is  this  English  woman  that  she  should  be  the  next  thought 
in  his  head  ?" 

So  the  only  result  of  Jason's  appeal  was  that  Michael  Sunlocks 
was  watched  the  closer,  worked  the  harder,  persecuted  the  more  by 
petty  tyrannies,  and  that  an  order  was  sent  up  to  the  farmhouse 
where  Greeba  lay  in  the  dear  dishonor  of  her  early  motherhood, 
requiring  her  to  leave  the  neighborhood  of  Krisuvik  as  speedily  as 
her  condition  allowed. 

This  was  when  the  long  dark  days  of  winter  were  beginning 


252  THE   BONDMAN 

to  fall  back  before  the  sweet  light  of  spring.  And  when  the 
snow  died  off  the  mountains,  and  the  cold  garment  of  the  jokulls 
was  sucked  full  of  holes  like  the  honeycomb,  and  the  world  that 
had  been  white  grew  black,  and  the  flowers  began  to  show  in  the 
corries,  and  the  sweet  summer  was  coming,  coming,  coming,  then 
Jason  went  down  to  the  Captain  of  the  Mines  again. 

"I've  come,  sir,"  he  said,  "to  ask  you  to  lock  me  up." 

"Why?"  said  the  Captain,  "what  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Jason,  "but  if  you  don't  prevent  me,  I'll  run 
away.  This  Free  Command  was  bad  enough  to  bear  when  the  snow 
cut  us  off  from  all  the  world.  But  now  that  it  is  gone  and  the 
world  is  free,  and  the  cuckoo  is  calling,  he  seems  to  be  calling  me, 
and  I  must  go  after  him." 

"Go,"  said  the  Captain,  "and  after  you've  tramped  the  deserts 
and  swam  the  rivers,  and  slept  on  the  ground,  and  starved  on 
roots,  we'll  fetch  you  back,  for  you  can  never  escape  us,  and  lash 
you  as  we  have  lashed  the  others  who  have  done  likewise." 

"If  I  go,"  said  Jason,  defiantly,  "you  shall  never  fetch  me  back, 
and  if  you  catch  me  you  shall  never  punish  me." 

"What?    Do  you  threaten  me?"  cried  the  Captain. 

Something  in  the  prisoner's  face  terrified  him,  though  he  would 
have  scorned  to  acknowledge  his  fear,  and  he  straightway  directed 
that  Jason  should  be  degraded,  for  insolence  and  insubordination, 
from  the  Free  Command  to  the  gangs. 

Now  this  was  exactly  what  Jason  wanted,  for  his  heart  had 
grown  sick  with  longing  for  another  sight  of  that  face  which  stood 
up  before  his  inward  eye  in  the  darkness  of  the  night.  But  re- 
membering Jason's  appeal  on  behalf  of  Michael  Sunlocks,  and  his 
old  suspicion  regarding  both,  the  Captain  ordered  that  the  two  men 
should  be  kept  apart. 

So  with  Jason  in  the  house  by  the  sea,  and  Sunlocks  in  the 
house  by  the  lake,  the  weeks  went  by;  and  the  summer  that  was 
coming  came,  and  like  a  bird  of  passage  the  darkness  of  night  fled 
quite  away,  and  the  sun  shone  that  shines  at  midnight. 

And  nothing  did  Jason  see  of  the  face  that  followed  him  in 
visions,  and  nothing  did  he  hear  of  the  man  known  to  him  as  A25, 
except  reports  of  brutal  treatment  and  fierce  rebellion.  But  on  a 
day — a  month  after  he  had  returned  to  the  stockade — he  was  going 
in  his  tired  and  listless  way  between  warders  from  one  solfatara 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill  to  another  on  the  breast  of  it,  when  he  came 
upon  a  horror  that  made  his  blood  run  cold. 

It  was  a  man  nailed  by  his  right  hand  to  a  great  socket  of  iron 
in  a  log  of  driftwood,  with  food  and  drink  within  sight  but  out  of 


THE   BONDMAN  253 

reach  of  him,  and  a  huge  knife  lying  close  by  his  side.  The  man 
was  A25. 

Jason  saw  everything  and  the  meaning  of  everything  in  an  in- 
stant, that  to  get  at  the  food  for  which  he  starved  that  man  must 
cut  off  his  own  right  hand.  And  there,  like  a  devil,  at  his  left  lay 
the  weapon  that  was  to  tempt  him. 

Nothing  so  inhuman,  so  barbarous,  so  fiendish,  so  hellish,  had 
Jason  yet  seen,  and  with  a  cry  like  the  growl  of  an  untamed  beast, 
he  broke  from  his  warders,  took  the  nail  in  his  fingers  like  a  vise, 
tore  it  up  out  of  the  bleeding  hand,  and  set  Michael  Sunlocks  free. 

At  the  next  instant  his  wrath  was  gone,  and  he  had  fallen  back 
to  his  listless  mood.  Then  the  warders  hurried  up,  laid  hold  of 
both  men,  and  hustled  them  away  with  a  brave  show  of  strength 
and  courage  to  the  office  of  the  Captain. 

Jorgen  Jorgensen  himself  was  there,  and  it  was  he  who  had 
ordered  the  ruthless  punishment.  The  warders  told  their  tale,  and 
he  listened  to  them  with  a  grin  on  his  cruel  face. 

"Strap  them  up  together,"  he  cried,  "leg  to  leg  and  arm  to  arm.'' 

And  when  this  was  done  he  said,  bitterly: 

"So  you  two  men  are  fond  of  one  another's  company!  Well, 
you  shall  have  enough  of  it  and  to  spare.  Day  after  day,  week 
after  week,  month  after  month,  like  as  you  are  now,  you  shall  live 
together,  until  you  abhor  and  detest  and  loathe  the  sight  of  each 
other.  Now  go !" 


CHAPTER   III 

THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH 

RED  JASON  and  Michael  Sunlocks,  now  lashed  together,  were 
driven  back  to  their  work  like  beasts  of  the  field.  They  knew  well 
what  their  punishment  meant  to  them — that  in  every  hour  of  life 
henceforward,  in  every  act,  through  every  thought,  each  man  should 
drag  a  human  carcass  by  his  side.  The  barbarity  of  their  doom  was 
hideous;  but  strangely  different  were  the  ways  they  accepted  it. 
Michael  Sunlocks  was  aflame  with  indignation;  Jason  was  crushed 
with  shame.  The  upturned  face  of  Sunlocks  was  pale,  his  flaxen 
hair  was  disheveled,  his  bloodshot  eyes  were  afire.  But  Jason's 
eyes,  full  of  confusion,  were  bent  on  the  ground,  his  tanned  face 
trembled  visibly,  and  his  red  hair,  grown  long  as  of  old,  fell  over 
his  drooping  shoulders  like  a  mantle  of  blood. 

And  as  they  trudged  along,  side  by  side,  in  the  first  hours  of 
their  unnatural  partnership,  Sunlocks  struggled  hard  to  keep  his 


254 


THE   BONDMAN 


eyes  from  the  man  with  whom  he  was  condemned  to  live  and  die, 
lest  the  gorge  of  his  very  soul  should  rise  at  the  sight  of  him.  So 
he  never  once  looked  at  Jason  through  many  hours  of  that  day. 
And  Jason,  on  his  part,  laboring  with  the  thought  that  it  was  he 
who  by  his  rash  act  had  brought  both  of  them  to  this  sore  pass, 
never  once  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  face  of  Sunlocks. 

Yet  each  man  knew  the  other's  thought  before  ever  a  word 
had  passed  between  them.  Jason  felt  that  Sunlocks  already  ab- 
horred him,  and  Sunlocks  knew  that  Jason  was  ashamed.  This 
brought  them  after  a  time  into  sympathy  of  some  sort,  and  Jason 
tried  to  speak  and  Sunlocks  to  listen. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  bring  you  to  this,"  said  Jason,  humbly.  And 
Sunlocks,  with  head  aside,  answered  as  well  as  he  could  for  the 
disgust  that  choked  him,  "You  did  it  for  the  best." 

"But  you  will  hate  me  for  it,"  said  Jason. 

And  once  again,  with  what  composure  he  could  command,  Sun- 
locks  answered,  "How  could  I  hate  you  for  saving  me  from  such 
brutal  treatment?" 

"Then  you  don't  regret  it?"  said  Jason,  pleadingly. 

"It  is  for  you,  not  me,  to  regret  it,"  said  Sunlocks. 

"Me?"  said  Jason. 

Through  all  the  shameful  hours  the  sense  of  his  own  loss  had 
never  yet  come  to  him.  From  first  to  last  he  had  thought  only  of 
Sunlocks. 

"My  liberty  was  gone  already,"  said  Sunlocks.  "But  you  were 
free — free  as  any  one  can  be  in  this  hell  on  earth.  Now  you  are 
bound — you  are  here  like  this — and  I  am  the  cause  of  it." 

Then  Jason's  rugged  face  was  suddenly  lighted  up  with  a  sur- 
prising joy.  "That's  nothing,"  he  said. 

"Nothing?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"I  mean  that  I  care  nothing,  if  you  don't,"  said  Jason. 

It  was  the  turn  of  Sunlocks  to  feel  surprise.  He  half  turned 
toward  Jason.  "Then  you  don't  regret  it?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Jason  firmly.    "And  you?" 

Sunlocks  felt  that  tears,  not  disgust,  were  choking  him  now. 

"No,"  he  answered,  shamefacedly,  turning  his  head  away. 

"March!"  shouted  the  warders,  who  had  been  drinking  their 
Smuggled  sneps  while  their  prisoners  had  been  talking. 

That  day,  Jorgen  Jorgensen  went  back  to  Reykjavik,  for  the 
time  of  the  Althing  was  near,  and  he  had  to  prepare  for  his  four- 
teen days  at  Thingvellir.  And  the  Governor  being  gone,  the  Cap- 
tain of  the  Mines  made  bold  so  far  to  relax  the  inhumanity  of  his 
sentence  as  to  order  that  the  two  men  who  were  bound  together 


THE   BONDMAN  255 

during  the  hours  of  work  should  be  separated  for  the  hours  of 
sleep.  But  never  forgetting  his  own  suspicion  that  Red  Jason  was 
an  ally  of  Michael  Sunlocks,  planning  his  escape,  he  ordered  also 
that  no  speech  should  be  allowed  to  pass  between  them.  To  pre- 
vent all  communion  of  this  kind  he  directed  that  the  men  should 
work  and  sleep  apart  from  the  other  prisoners,  and  that  their  two 
warders  should  attend  them  night  and  day. 

But  though  the  rigor  of  discipline  kept  them  back  from  free  in- 
tercourse, no  watchfulness  could  check  the  stolen  words  of  comfort 
that  helped  the  weary  men  to  bear  their  degrading  lot. 

That  night,  the  first  of  their  life  together,  Michael  Sunlocks 
looked  into  Jason's  face  and  said,  "I  have  seen  you  before  some- 
where. Where  was  it?" 

But  Jason  remembered  the  hot  words  that  had  pursued  him  on 
the  day  of  the  burning  of  the  beds,  and  so  he  made  no  answer. 

After  a  while,  Michael  Sunlocks  looked  closely  into  Jason's  face 
again,  and  said,  "What  is  your  name?" 

"Don't  ask  it,"  said  Jason. 

"Why  not,"  said  Sunlocks. 

"You  might  remember  it." 

"Even  so,  what  then?" 

"Then  you  might  also  remember  what  I  did,  or  tried  to  do,  and 
you  would  hate  me  for  it,"  said  Jason. 

"Was  your  crime  so  inhuman?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"It  would  seem  so,"  said  Jason. 

"Who  sent  you  here?" 

"The  Republic." 

"You  won't  tell  me  your  name?" 

"I've  got  none,  so  to  speak,  having  had  no  father  to  give  me  one. 
I'm  alone  in  the  world." 

Michael  Sunlocks  did  not  sleep  much  that  night,  for  the  wound 
in  his  hand  was  very  painful,  and  next  morning,  while  Jason  dressed 
it,  he  looked  into  his  face  once  more  and  said,  "You  say  you  are 
alone  in  the  world." 

"Yes,"  said  Jason. 

"What  of  your  mother  ?" 

"She's  dead,  poor  soul." 

"Have  you  no  sister?" 

"No." 

"Nor  brother?" 

"No — that's  to  say— no,  no." 

"No  one  belonging  to  you  ?" 

"No." 


256  THE   BONDMAN 

"Are  you  quite  alone  ?" 

"Ay,  quite,"  said  Jason.  "No  one  to  think  twice  what  becomes 
of  me.  Nobody  to  trouble  whether  I  am  here  or  in  a  better  place. 
Nobody  to  care  whether  I  live  or  die." 

He  tried  to  laugh  as  he  said  this,  but  in  spite  of  his  brave  show 
of  unconcern  his  deep  voice  broke  and  his  strong  face  quivered. 

"But  what's  your  own  name?"  he  said  abruptly. 

"Call  me — brother,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"To  your  work,"  cried  the  warders,  and  they  were  hustled  out. 

Their  work  for  the  day  was  delving  sulphur  from  the  banks  of 
the  solfataras  and  loading  it  on  the  backs  of  the  ponies.  And  while 
their  warders  dozed  in  the  heat  of  the  noonday  sun,  they  wiped 
their  brows  and  rested. 

At  that  moment  Jason's  eyes  turned  toward  the  hospital  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hill,  and  he  remembered  what  he  had  heard 
of  the  good  woman  who  had  been  nurse  there.  This  much  at  least 
he  knew  of  her,  that  she  was  the  wife  of  his  yoke-fellow,  and  he 
was  about  to  speak  of  her  trouble  and  dishonor  when  Michael  Sun- 
locks  said: 

"After  all,  you  are  luckiest  to  be  alone  in  the  world.  To  have 
ties  of  affection  is  only  to  be  the  more  unhappy." 

"That's  true,"  said  Jason. 

"Say  you  love  somebody  and  all  your  heart  is  full  of  her?  You 
lose  her,  and  then  where  are  you  ?" 

"But  that's  not  your  own  case,"  said  Jason.  "Your  wife  is 
alive,  is  she  not?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  have  not  lost  her?" 

"There  is  a  worse  loss  than  that  of  death,"  said  Sunlocks. 

Jason  glanced  quickly  into  his  face,  and  said  tenderly,  "I  know 
—I  understand.  There  was  another  man?" 

"Yes." 

"And  he  robbed  you  of  her  love  ?"  said  Jason,  eagerly. 

"Yes." 

"And  you  killed  him?"  cried  Jason,  with  panting  breath. 

"No.    But  God  keep  that  man  out  of  my  hands." 

"Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"Heaven  knows.  He  was  here,  but  he  is  gone;  for  when  the 
Republic  fell  I  was  imprisoned,  and  two  days  before  that  he  was 
liberated." 

"Silence !"  shouted  the  warders,  awakening  suddenly  and  hear- 
ing voices. 

Jason's  eyes  had  begun  to  fill,  and  down  his  rugged  cheeks  the 


THE   BONDMAN  257 

big  drops  were  rolling  one  by  one.  After  that  he  checked  the  im- 
pulse to  speak  of  the  nurse.  The  wife  of  his  yoke-fellow  must  be  an 
evil  woman.  The  prisoner-priest  must  have  been  taken  in  by  her. 
For  once  the  warders  must  have  been  right. 

And  late  that  night,  while  Jason  was  dressing  the  wounded 
hand  of  Michael  Sunlocks  with  wool  torn  from  his  own  sheepskin 
jerkin,  he  said,  with  his  eyes  down : 

"I  scarce  thought  there  was  anything  in  common  between  us 
two.  You're  a  gentleman,  and  I'm  only  a  rough  fellow.  You  have 
been  brought  up  tenderly,  and  I  have  been  kicked  about  the  world 
since  I  was  a  lad  in  my  poor  mother's  home,  God  rest  her !  But 
my  life  has  been  like  yours  in  one  thing." 

"What's  that?"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"That  another  man  has  wrecked  it,"  said  Jason.  "I  never  had 
but  one  glint  of  sunshine  in  my  life,  and  that  man  wiped  it  out 
forever.  It  was  a  woman,  and  she  was  all  the  world  to  me.  But 
she  was  proud  and  I  was  poor.  And  he  was  rich,  and  he  came 
between  us.  He  had  everything,  and  the  world  was  at  her  feet.  I 
had  nothing  but  that  woman's  love,  and  he  took  it  from  me.  It  was 
too  cruel,  and  I  could  not  bear  it — God  knows  I  could  not." 

"Wait,"  cried  Michael  Sunlocks.  "Is  that  why  you  are  here! 
Did  you — you  did  not — no — " 

"No,  I  know  .what  you  mean;  but  I  did  not  kill  him.  No,  no, 
I  have  never  seen  him.  I  could  never  meet  with  him,  try  how  I 
would." 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"With  her — in  happiness  and  freedom  and  content,  while  I  am 
here  in  misery  and  bondage  and  these  ropes.  But  there  will  be 
a  reckoning  between  us  yet.  I  know  there  will.  I  swear  there 
will.  As  sure  as  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven,  that  man  and  I  will 
one  day  stand  together  face  to  face." 

Then  Michael  Sunlocks  took  both  Jason's  hands. 

"My  brother,"  he  cried  fervently.  "Brother  now  more  than 
ever;  brother  in  suffering,  brother  in  weakness,  brother  in 
strength." 

"Silence  there !"  shouted  the  warders,  and  the  two  men  were 
separated  for  the  night. 

The  wound  in  the  hand  of  Michael  Sunlocks  grew  yet  more 
painful,  and  he  slept  even  less  than  before.  Next  day  the  power 
of  life  was  low  in  him,  and  seeing  this,  Jason  said,  when  the 
warders  stepped  up  to  lash  them  together,  "He  is  ill,  and  not  fit 
to  go  out.  Let  me  work  alone  to-day.  I'll  do  enough  for  both 
of  us." 


258  THE   BONDMAN 

But  no  heed  was  paid  to  Jason's  warning,  and  Michael  Sun- 
locks  was  driven  out  by  his  side.  All  that  day,  the  third  of  their 
life  together,  they  worked  with  difficulty,  for  the  wound  in  the 
hand  of  Sunlocks  was  not  only  a  trouble  to  himself  but  an  impedi- 
ment to  Jason  also.  Yet  Jason  gave  no  hint  of  that,  but  kept  the 
good  spade  going  constantly,  with  a  smile  on  his  face  through  the 
sweat  that  stood  on  it,  and  little  stolen  words  of  comfort  and  cheer. 
And  when  the  heat  was  strongest,  and  Sunlocks  would  have  stum- 
bled and  fallen,  Jason  contrived  a  means  to  use  both  their  spades 
together,  only  requiring  that  Sunlocks  should  stoop  when  he 
stooped,  that  the  warders  might  think  he  was  still  working.  But 
their  artifice  was  discovered,  and  all  that  came  of  it  was  that  they 
were  watched  the  closer  and  driven  the  harder  during  the  hours 
that  remained  of  that  day. 

Next  day,  the  fourth  of  their  direful  punishment,  Sunlocks  rose 
weak  and  trembling,  and  scarce  able  to  stand  erect.  And  with  what 
spirit  he  could  summon  up  he  called  upon  the  warders  to  look  upon 
him  and  see  how  feeble  he  was,  and  say  if  it  was  fair  to  his  yoke- 
fellow that  they  should  compel  him  to  do  the  work  of  two  men  and 
drag  a  human  body  after  him.  But  the  warders  only  laughed  at 
his  protest,  and  once  again  he  was  driven  out  by  Jason's  side. 

Long  and  heavy  were  the  hours  that  followed,  but  Sunlocks, 
being  once  started  on  his  way,  bore  up  under  it  very  bravely,  mur- 
muring as  little  as  he  might,  out  of  thought  for  Jason.  And  Jason 
helped  along  his  stumbling  footsteps  as  well  as  he  could  for  the 
arm  that  was  bound  to  him.  And  seeing  how  well  they  worked 
by  this  double  power  of  human  kindness,  the  warders  laughed 
again,  and  made  a  mock  at  Sunlocks  for  his  former  cry  of  weak- 
ness. And  so,  amid  tender  words  between  themselves,  and  jeers 
cast  in  upon  them  by  the  warders,  they  made  shift  to  cheat  time 
of  another  weary  day. 

The  fifth  day  went  by  like  the  fourth,  with  heavy  toil  and  pain 
to  make  it  hard,  and  cruel  taunts  to  make  it  bitter.  And  many  a 
time,  as  they  delved  the  yellow  sulphur  bank,  a  dark  chill  crossed 
the  hearts  of  both,  and  they  thought  in  their  misery  how  cheer- 
fully they  would  dig  for  death  itself,  if  only  it  lay  in  the  hot  clay 
beneath  them. 

That  night  when  they  had  returned  to  the  hut  wherein  they 
slept,  or  tried  to  sleep,  they  found  that  some  well-meaning  stranger 
had  been  there  in  their  absence  and  nailed  up  on  the  grimy  walls 
above  their  beds,  a  card  bearing  the  text,  "Come  unto  Me  all  ye 
that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest."  And  so 
ghastly  seemed  the  irony  of  those  words  in  that  place  that  Jason 


THE   BONDMAN  259 

muttered  an  oath  between  his  teeth  as  he  read  them,  and  Sunlocks 
threw  himself  down,  being  unbound  for  the  night,  with  a  peal  of 
noisy  laughter,  and  a  soul  full  of  strange  bitterness. 

The  next  day  after  that,  the  sixth  of  their  life  together,  rose 
darker  than  any  day  that  had  gone  before  it,  for  the  wounded  hand 
of  Michael  Sunlocks  was  then  purple  and  black,  and  swollen  to  the 
size  of  two  hands,  and  his  bodily  strength  was  so  low  that,  try  as 
bravely  as  he  might  to  stand  erect,  whenever  he  struggled  to  his 
feet  he  fell  to  the  ground  again.  Thinking  nothing  of  this,  the 
warders  were  for  strapping  him  up  to  Jason  as  before,  but  while 
they  were  in  the  act  of  doing  so  he  fainted  in  their  hands.  Then 
Jason  swept  them  from  him,  and  vowed  that  the  first  man  that 
touched  Sunlocks  again  should  lie  dead  at  his  feet. 

"Send  for  the  Captain,"  he  cried,  "and  if  the  man  has  any 
bowels  of  compassion  let  him  come  and  see  what  you  have 
done." 

The  warders  took  Jason  at  his  word,  and  sent  a  message  to  the 
office  saying  that  one  of  their  prisoners  was  mutinous,  and  the  other 
pretending  to  be  ill.  After  a  time  the  Captain  despatched  two  other 
warders  to  the  help  of  the  first  two  and  these  words  along  with 
them  for  his  answer :  "If  one  rebels,  punish  both." 

Nothing  loth  for  such  exercise,  the  four  warders  set  themselves 
to  decide  what  the  punishment  should  be,  and  while  they  laid  their 
heads  together,  Jason  was  bending  over  Sunlocks,  who  was  now 
recovered  to  consciousness,  asking  his  pardon  in  advance  for  the 
cruel  penalty  that  his  rash  act  was  to  bring  on  both  of  them. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't  help  it.  I  didn't  know  what 
I  was  doing." 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  brother,"  whispered  Michael  Sun- 
locks. 

And  thus  with  stammering  tongues  they  comforted  one  another, 
and  with  hands  clasped  together  they  waited  for  the  punishment 
that  had  to  come. 

At  length  the  warders  concluded  that  for  refusing  to  work,  for 
obstinate  disobedience,  and  for  threatening,  nothing  would  serve 
but  that  their  prisoners  should  straightway  do  the  most  perilous 
work  to  be  found  that  day  at  the  sulphur  mines. 

Now  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  for  Red  Jason  and 
Michael  Sunlocks,  and  if  the  evil  chance  had  not  befallen  them, 
God  alone  can  say  how  long  they  might  have  lived  together  at 
Krisuvik,  or  how  soon  or  how  late  they  would  have  become  known 
to  one  another  by  their  true  names  and  characters.  But  heaven 
itself  had  its  purposes,  even  in  the  barbarity  of  base-hearted  men, 


260  THE   BONDMAN 

as  a  means  toward  the  great  end  that  was  near  at  hand.  And 
this  was  the  way  of  its  coming. 

A  strange  change  that  no  one  could  rightly  understand  had 
lately  come  upon  the  natural  condition  of  the  sulphur  mines.  The 
steam  that  rose  from  the  solfataras  had  grown  less  and  less  week 
by  week  and  day  by  day,  until  in  some  places  it  had  altogether  sub- 
sided. This  was  a  grave  sign,  for  in  the  steam  lay  the  essence  of 
the  sulphur,  and  if  it  ceased  to  rise  from  the  pits  the  sulphur  would 
cease  to  grow. 

Other  changes  came  with  this,  such  as  that  deep  subterranean 
noises  arose  from  parts  of  the  plain  where  no  fissures  had  yet  been 
seen,  and  that  footsteps  on  the  earth  around  these  places  produced 
a  hollow  sound. 

From  these  signs,  taken  together,  the  Captain  had  concluded 
that  the  life  of  the  mines,  the  great  infernal  fire  that  raged  be- 
neath the  surface,  was  changing  ground,  leaving  the  valley,  where 
it  had  lived  for  ages,  for  the  mountain  heights,  where  the  low 
grumblings  were  now  heard  to  come  from  beneath  the  earth's  crust 
of  lava  and  basaltic  rock. 

So,  taking  counsel  of  his  people,  he  decided  to  bore  the  ground 
in  these  new  places  in  the  hope  of  lighting  on  living  solfataras 
that  would  stand  to  him  against  the  loss  of  the  dead  ones.  And  it 
chanced  that  he  was  in  the  midst  of  many  busy  preparations  for 
this  work  when  the  report  of  the  warders  reached  him,  and  the 
boring  was  still  uppermost  in  his  mind  when  he  sent  back  his 
answer  as  he  came  upon  the  flogging  and  stopped  it. 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  first  thought  that  came  to  the  warders 
was  to  send  their  prisoners  to  one  of  the  spots  that  had  been  marked 
on  the  hillside  for  the  test  of  bore  and  spade. 

So,  in  less  than  half  an  hour  more,  Jason  and  Sunlocks,  lashed 
together,  arm  to  arm  and  leg  to  leg,  were  being  driven  up  the 
mountain  to  the  place  assigned  to  them.  They  found  it  a  hideous 
and  awesome  spot.  Within  a  circle  of  two  yards  across,  the  ground 
;was  white  and  yellow  and  scaly,  like  a  scab  on  evil  flesh.  It  was 
hot,  so  that  the  hand  could  not  rest  upon  it,  and  hollow,  so  that 
the  foot  made  it  shake,  and  from  unseen  depths  beneath  it  a  dull 
thud  came  up  at  intervals  like  nothing  else  but  the  knocking  of  a 
man  buried  alive  at  the  sealed  door  of  his  tomb. 

Beneath  this  spot  the  heart  of  the  solfatara  was  expected  to  lie, 
and  Jason  and  Sunlocks  were  commanded  to  open  it.  Obeying 
gloomily,  they  took  the  bore  first  and  pierced  the  scaly  surface, 
and  instantly  a  sizzling  and  bubbling  sound  came  up  from  below. 
Then  they  followed  with  the  spades,  but  scarcely  had  they  lifted  the 


THE   BONDMAN  261 

top  crust  when  twenty  great  fissures  seemed  to  open  under  their 
feet,  and  they  could  see  lurid  flames  rushing  in  wild  confusion,  like 
rivers  of  fire  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 

It  was  a  sight  at  which  the  stoutest  heart  might  have  quailed, 
and  Jason  leaped  back  to  the  bank  and  dragged  Sunlocks  after 
him. 

"This  is  not  safe,"  he  said. 

"In  with  you,"  shouted  the  warders  from  their  own  safe  footing 
of  four  yards  away.  With  a  growl  from  between  his  clinched  teeth, 
Jason  stepped  back  into  the  hole,  and  Sunlocks  followed  him.  But 
hardly  had  they  got  down  to  the  fearsome  spot  again,  when  a  layer 
of  clay  fell  in  from  it,  leaving  a  deep  wide  gully,  and  then  scarcely 
a  yard  of  secure  footing  remained. 

"Let  us  stop  while  we  are  safe,"  Jason  cried. 

"Dig  away,"  shouted  the  warders. 

"If  we  do,  we  shall  be  digging  our  own  graves,"  said  Jason. 

"Begin,"  shouted  the  warders. 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  Jason.  "If  we  are  to  open  this  pit  of  fire 
and  brimstone,  at  least  let  us  be  free  of  these  ropes.  That's  but 
fair,  that  each  man  may  have  a  chance  of  his  life." 

"Go  on,"  shouted  the  warders. 

"If  we  go  on  like  this  we  shall  be  burned  and  boiled  alive,"  said 
Jason. 

"Get  along,"  shouted  the  warders  with  one  voice,  and  then  an 
awful  light  flashed  in  Jason's  eyes,  for  he  saw  that  out  of  revenge 
for  their  paltry  fines  they  had  resolved  to  drive  two  living  men  to 
their  death. 

"Now,  listen  again,"  said  Jason,  "and  mark  my  words.  We 
will  do  as  you  command  us,  and  work  in  this  pit  of  hell.  I  will  not 
die  in  it — that  I  know.  But  this  man  beside  me  is  weak  and  ill, 
heaven  curse  your  inhumanity;  and  if  anything  happens  to  him, 
and  I  am  alive  to  see  it,  as  sure  as  there  is  strength  left  in  my 
arms,  and  blood  in  my  body,  I  will  tear  you  limb  from  limb." 

So  saying,  he  plunged  his  spade  into  the  ground  beneath  him, 
with  an  oath  to  drive  it,  and  at  the  next  instant  there  was  a  flash 
of  blue  flame,  an  avalanche  of  smoke,  a  hurricane  of  unearthly 
noises,  a  cry  like  that  of  a  dying  man,  and  then  an  awful  silence. 

When  the  air  had  cleared,  Jason  stood  uninjured,  but  Michael 
Sunlocks  hung  by  his  side  inert  and  quiet,  and  blinded  by  a  jet  of 
steam. 

What  happened  to  Jason  thereafter  no  tongue  of  man  could 
tell.  All  the  fire  of  his  spirit,  and  all  the  strength  of  all  his  days 
seemed  to  flow  back  upon  him  in  that  great  moment.  He  parted 


262  THE    BOXDMAN 

the  ropes  that  bound  him  as  if  they  had  been  green  withes  that  he 
snapped  asunder.  He  took  Sunlocks  in  his  arms  and  lifted  him  up 
to  his  shoulder,  and  hung  him  across  it,  as  if  he  had  been  a  child 
that  he  placed  there.  He  stepped  out  of  the  deadly  pit,  and  strode 
along  over  the  lava  mountain  as  if  he  were  the  sole  creature  of  the 
everlasting  hills.  His  glance  was  terrific,  his  voice  was  the  voice 
of  a  wounded  beast.  The  warders  dropped  their  muskets  and  fled 
before  him  like  affrighted  sheep. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THROUGH  THE  CHASM  OF  ALL  MEN 

IT  was  still  early  morning;  a  soft  gray  mist  lay  over  the  moor- 
lands, but  the  sun  that  had  never  set  in  that  northern  land  was  ris- 
ing through  clouds  of  pink  and  white  over  the  bald  crown  of  a 
mountain  to  the  northeast.  And  toward  the  rising  sun  Jason 
made  his  way,  striding  on  with  the  red  glow  on  his  own  tanned  and 
blackened  face,  and  its  ghastly  mockery  of  the  hues  of  life  on  the 
pallid  cheeks  and  whitened  lips  of  Sunlocks.  From  his  right  ankle 
and  right  wrist  hung  the  rings  of  his  broken  fetters,  and  from  the 
left  ankle  and  left  wrist  of  Sunlocks  trailed  the  ropes  that  had 
bound  them  both.  Never  a  moment  did  he  pause  to  breathe  or 
think  or  question  himself.  On  and  on  he  went,  over  lava  blocks 
and  lava  dust,  basaltic  rock  and  heavy  clay,  and  hot  blue  earth 
and  scorched  and  withered  moss.  And  still  Sunlocks  lay  over  his 
right  side  and  shoulder,  motionless  and  unconscious,  hardly  breath- 
ing, but  alive,  with  his  waist  encircled  by  Jason's  great  right  arm, 
and  his  waist-belt  grasped  tight  as  with  the  grip  of  a  talon  by 
Jason's  hard  right  hand. 

Before  long,  Sunlocks  recovered  some  partial  consciousness 
and  cried  in  a  faint  voice  for  water.  Jason  glanced  around  on  the 
arid  plain  as  if  his  eyes  would  pierce  the  ground  for  a  spring, 
but  no  water  could  he  see  on  any  side  of  him,  and  so  without  a 
word  oi  answer  he  strode  along. 

"Water,  water,"  cried  Sunlocks  again,  and  just  then  Jason 
caught  the  side-long  glint  of  a  river  that  ran  like  a  pearl  chain 
down  the  black  breast  of  a  mountain. 

"Water,"  cried  Sunlocks  again  and  yet  again,  in  a  voice  of  pain 
and  deep  pleading,  not  rightly  knowing  yet  where  he  was  or  what 
bad  chance  had  befallen  him. 


THE   BONDMAN  263 

"Yes,  yes,  one  moment  more,  only  a  moment,  there — there — 
there !"  whispered  Jason. 

And  muttering  such  words  of  comfort  and  cheer,  he  quickened 
his  pace  toward  the  river.  But  when  he  got  near  to  it  he  stopped 
short  with  a  cry  of  dismay.  The  river  bubbled  and  smoked. 

"Hot !    It  is  hot,"  cried  Jason.    "And  the  land  is  accursed." 

At  that  word,  Sunlocks  uttered  a  low  groan,  and  his  head,  which 
had  been  partly  lifted,  fell  heavily  backward,  and  his  hair  hung 
over  Jason's  shoulder.  He  was  again  unconscious. 

Then  more  than  ever  like  a  wild  beast  ranging  the  hills  with 
its  prey,  Jason  strode  along.  And  presently  he  saw  a  lake  of 
blue  water  far  away.  He  knew  it  for  cold  water,  blessed,  ice-cold 
water,  water  to  bathe  the  hot  forehead  with,  water  to  drink.  With 
a  cry  of  joy,  which  there  was  no  human  ear  to  hear,  he  turned 
and  made  toward  it;  but  just  as  he  did  so,  softening  as  he  went, 
and  muttering  from  his  own  parched  throat  words  of  hope  and 
comfort  to  the  unconscious  man  he  carried,  a  gunshot  echoed 
through  the  mountains  above  his  head. 

He  knew  what  the  shot  was;  it  was  the  signal  of  his  escape. 
And  looking  down  to  the  valley,  he  saw  that  the  guards  of  the  set- 
tlement were  gathering  on  their  ponies  in  the  very  line  of  the 
plain  that  he  must  traverse  to  reach  the  water  for  which  Sunlocks 
thirsted. 

Then  "Water,  water,"  came  again  in  the  same  faint  voice  as 
before,  and  whether  with  his  actual  ear  he  heard  that  cry,  or  in 
the  torment  of  his  distraught  sense  it  only  rang  out  in  his  empty 
heart,  no  man  shall  say.  But  all  the  same  he  answered  it  from 
his  choking  throat,  "Patience,  patience." 

And  then,  with  another  look  downward,  the  look  of  a  human 
stag,  at  the  cool  water  which  he  might  not  reach  and  live,  he  turned 
himself  back  to  the  mountains. 

What  happened  to  him  then,  and  for  many  weary  hours  there- 
after, it  would  weary  the  spirit  to  tell:  what  plains  he  crossed, 
what  hills  he  climbed,  and  in  what  desolate  wilderness  tie  walked 
alone,  with  no  one  for  company  save  the  unconscious  man  across 
his  shoulder,  and  no  eye  to  look  upon  him  save  the  eye  of  God. 

And  first  he  crossed  a  wide  sea  of  lava  'dust,  black  as  tfie  ravens 
that  flew  in  the  air  above  it,  and  bounded  by  hills  as  dark  as  the 
earth  that  were  themselves  vast  sand  drifts  blown  up  into  strange 
and  terrible  shapes  by  mighty  tempests.  Then  he  came  upon  a 
plain  strewn  over  with  cinders,  having  a  grim  crag  frowning  upon 
it,  like  the  bank  of  a  smelting-house,  with  its  screes  of  refuse  roll- 
ing down.  By  this  time  the  sun  had  risen  high  and  grown  hot, 


264  THE   BONDMAN 

and  the  black  ground  under  his  feet  began  to  send  up  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  sun's  rays  into  his  face  to  scorch  it. 

And  still  the  cry  of  "Water,  water,"  rang  in  his  ears,  and  his 
eyes  ranged  the  desolate  land  to  find  it,  but  never  a  sign  of  it 
could  he  see,  and  his  strong  heart  sank.  Once,  when  he  had 
mounted  with  great  toil  to  the  top  of  a  hill,  where  all  behind  him 
had  been  black  and  burnt  and  blistered,  he  saw  a  wide  valley 
stretching  in  front  of  him  that  was  as  green  as  the  grass  of  spring. 
And  he  thought  that  where  there  was  grass  there  would  surely 
be  water,  streams  of  water,  rivers  of  water,  pools  of  water,  sunny 
stretches  of  sweet  water  lying  clear  and  quiet  over  amber  pebbles 
and  between  soft  brown  banks  of  turf. 

So  at  this  sight  his  heart  was  lifted  up,  and  bounding  down 
the  hillside,  over  the  lava  blocks,  as  fast  as  he  could  go  for  his 
burden,  he  began  to  sing  from  his  cracked  throat  in  his  hoarse  and 
quavery  voice.  But  when  he  reached  the  valley  his  song  stopped, 
and  his  heart  sank  afresh,  for  it  was  not  grass,  but  moss  that  grew 
there,  and  it  lay  only  on  big  blocks  of  lava,  with  never  a  drop  of 
moisture  or  a  handful  of  earth  between  them. 

He  was  crushed,  but  he  was  strong  of  heart  and  would  not 
despair.  So  he  pushed  on  over  this  green  plain,  through  a  hundred 
thousand  mossy  mounds  that  looked  like  the  graves  of  a  world  of 
dead  men. 

But  when  he  came  out  of  it  his  case  seemed  yet  more  forlorn, 
for  leaving  the  soft  valley  behind  he  had  come  upon  a  lava  stream, 
a  sea  of  stones,  not  dust  or  cinders,  but  a  bleached  cake  of  lava 
rock,  with  never  a  soft  place  for  the  foot,  and  never  a  green  spot 
for  the  eye.  Not  a  leaf  to  rustle  in  the  breeze,  not  a  blade  of  grass 
to  whisper  to  it,  not  a  bird's  sweet  voice,  or  the  song  of  running 
water.  Nothing  lived  there  but  dead  silence  on  earth  and  in  air. 
Nothing  but  that,  or  in  other  hours  the  roar  of  wind,  the  rattle 
of  rain,  and  the  crash  of  thunder. 

All  this  time  Jason  had  walked  on  under  the  sweltering  sun, 
never  resting,  never  pausing,  buoyed  up  with  the  hope  of  water — 
water  for  the  fainting  man  that  he  might  not  die.  But  in  the 
desolation  of  that  moment  he  dropped  Sunlocks  from  his  shoulder, 
and  threw  himself  down  beside  him. 

And  sitting  there,  with  the  head  of  his  unconscious  comrade 
upon  his  knees,  he  put  it  to  himself  to  say  what  had  been  the  good  of 
all  that  he  had  done,  and  if  it  would  not  have  been  better  for  both 
of  them  if  he  had  submitted  to  base  tyranny  and  remained  at  the 
Mines.  Had  he  not  brought  this  man  out  to  his  death  ?  What  else 
was  before  him  in  this  waste  wilderness,  where  there  was  no  drop 


THE   BONDMAN  265 

of  water  to  cool  his  hot  forehead  or  moisten  his  parched  tongue? 
And  thinking  that  his  yoke-fellow  might  die,  and  die  at  his  hands, 
and  that  he  would  then  be  alone,  with  the  only  man's  face 
gone  from  him  that  had  ever  brightened  life  for  him,  his  heart 
began  to  waver  and  to  say,  "Rise  up,  Jason,  rise  up  and  go 
back." 

But  just  then  he  was  conscious  of  the  click-clack  of  horses' 
hoofs  on  the  echoing  face  of  the  stony  sea  about  him,  and  he  shaded 
his  eyes  and  looked  around,  and  saw  in  the  distance  a  line  of  men 
on  ponies  coming  on  in  his  direction.  And  though  he  thought  of 
the  guards  that  had  been  signaled  to  pursue  him,  he  made  no  effort 
to  escape.  He  did  not  stir  or  try  to  hide  himself,  but  sat  as  before 
with  the  head  of  his  comrade  on  his  knees. 

The  men  on  the  ponies  came  up  and  passed  him  closely  by  with- 
out seeing  him.  But  he  saw  them  clearly  and  heard  their  talk. 
They  were  not  the  guard  from  the  settlement,  but  Thing-men  bound 
for  Thingvellir  and  the  meeting  of  the  Althing  there.  And  while 
they  were  going  on  before  him  in  their  laughter  and  high  spirits, 
Jason  could  scarce  resist  the  impulse  to  cry  out  to  them  to  stop 
and  take  him  along  with  them  as  their  prisoner,  for  that  he  was 
an  outlaw  who  had  broken  his  outlawry,  and  carried  away  with  him 
this  fainting  man  at  his  knees. 

But  before  the  words  would  form  themselves,  and  while  his 
blistering  lips  were  shaping  to  speak  them,  a  great  thought  came 
to  him,  and  struck  him  back  to  silence. 

Why  had  he  torn  away  from  the  Sulphur  Mines?  Only  from 
a  gloomy  love  of  life,  life  for  his  comrade,  and  life  for  himself. 
And  what  life  was  there  in  this  trackless  waste,  this  moldering 
dumb  wilderness  ?  None,  none.  Nothing  but  death  lay  here ;  death 
in  these  gaunt  solitudes;  death  in  these  dry  deserts;  death  amid 
these  ghastly,  haggard  wrecks  of  inhuman  things.  What  chance 
could  there  be  of  escape  from  Iceland?  None,  none,  none. 

But  there  was  one  hope  yet.  Who  were  these  men  that  had 
passed  him?  They  were  Thing-men;  they  were  the  lawmakers. 
Where  were  they  going  ?  They  were  going  to  the  Mount  of  Laws. 
Why  were  they  going  there?  To  hold  their  meeting  of  the  Althing. 
What  was  the  Althing?  The  highest  power  of  the  State;  the 
supreme  Court  of  legislature  and  law. 

What  did  all  this  mean?  It  meant  that  Jason  as  an  Icelander 
knew  the  laws  of  his  country,  and  that  one  great  law  above  all 
other  laws  he  remembered  at  that  instant.  It  concerned  outlaws. 
And  what  were  they  but  outlaws,  both  of  them?  It  ordered  that 
the  condemned  could  appeal  at  the  Althing  against  the  injustice  of 
12  Vol.  H. 


266  THE   BONDMAN 

his  sentence.  If  the  ranks  of  the  judges  opened  for  his  escape, 
then  he  was  saved. 

Jason  leaped  to  his  feet  at  the  thought  of  it.  That  was  what  he 
would  do  for  his  comrade  and  for  himself.  He  would  push  on  to 
Thingvellir.  It  was  five-and-thirty  heavy  miles  away ;  but  no  mat- 
ter for  that.  The  angel  of  hope  would  walk  with  him.  He  would 
reach  the  Mount  of  Laws,  carrying  his  comrade  all  the  way.  And 
when  he  got  there,  he  would  plead  the  cause  of  both  of  them.  Then 
the  judges  would  rise,  and  part,  and  make  way  for  them,  and  they 
would  be  free  men  thereafter. 

Life,  life,  life !  There  was  life  left  for  both  of  them,  and  very 
sweet  it  seemed  after  the  shadow  of  death  that  had  so  nearly  en- 
compassed them.  Only  to  live !  Only  to  live !  They  were  young 
yet  and  loved  one  another  as  brothers. 

And  while  thinking  so,  in  the  whirl  of  his  senses  as  he  strode 
to  and  fro  over  the  lava  blocks,  Jason  heard  what  his  ear  had 
hitherto  been  too  heavy  to  catch,  the  thin  music  of  falling  water 
near  at  hand.  And,  looking  up,  he  saw  a  tiny  rivulet  like  a  lock 
of  silken  hair  dropping  over  a  round  face  of  rock,  and  thanking 
God  for  it,  he  rah  to  it,  and  filled  both  hands  with  it,  and  brought 
it  to  Sunlocks  and  bathed  his  forehead  with  it,  and  his  poor  blinded 
eyes,  and  moistened  his  withered  lips,  whispering  meantime  words 
of  hope  and  simple  tender  nothings,  such  as  any  woman  might 
croon  over  her  sick  boy. 

"Come,  boy,  come  then,  come,  boy,  come,"  he  whispered,  and 
clapped  his  moist  hands  together  over  the  placid  face  to  call  it  back 
to  itself. 

And  while  he  did  so,  sure  enough  Sunlocks  moved,  his  lips 
parted,  his  cheeks  quivered,  and  he  sighed.  And  seeing  these  signs 
of  consciousness,  Jason  began  to  cry,  for  the  great  rude  fellow 
who  had  not  flinched  before  death  was  touched  at  the  sight  of  life  in 
that  deep  place  where  the  strongest  man  is  as  a  child. 

But  just  then  he  heard  once  more  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  on 
the  lava  ground,  and,  looking  up,  he  saw  that  there  could  be  no 
error  this  time,  and  that  the  guards  were  surely  coming.  Ten  or 
twelve  of  them  there  seemed  to  be,  mounted  on  as  many  ponies, 
and  they  were  driving  on  at  a  furious  gallop  over  the  stones. 
There  was  a  dog  racing  in  front  of  them,  another  dog  was  running 
at  their  heels,  and  with  the  barking  of  the  dogs,  the  loud  whoops 
of  the  men  to  urge  the  ponies  along,  and  to  the  clatter  of  the 
ponies'  hoofs,  the  plain  rang  and  echoed. 

Jason  saw  that  the  guards  were  coming  on  in  their  direction. 
In  three  minutes  more  they  would  be  upon  them.  They  were  taking 


THE   BONDMAN  267 

the  line  followed  by  the  Thing-men.  Would  they  pass  them  by  un- 
seen as  the  Thing-men  had  passed  them?  That  was  not  to  be  ex- 
pected, for  they  were  there  to  look  for  them.  What  was  to  be 
done?  Jason  looked  behind  him.  Nothing  was  there  but  an  im- 
placable wall  of  stone,  rising  sheer  up  into  the  sky,  with  never  a 
bough,  or  tussock  of  grass  to  cling  to  that  a  man  might  climb.  He 
looked  around.  The  ground  was  covered  with  cracked  domes  like 
the  arches  of  buried  cities,  but  the  caverns  that  lay  beneath  them 
were  guarded  by  spiked  jaws  which  only  a  man's  foot  could  slip 
through.  Not  a  gap,  not  a  hole  to  creep  into;  not  a  stone  to 
crouch  under ;  not  a  bush  to  hide  behind ;  nothing  in  sight  .on  any 
side  but  the  bare,  hard  face  of  the  wide  sea  of  stone. 

There  was  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Jason  lifted  Sunlocks  to  his 
shoulder  and  crept  along,  bent  nearly  double,  as  silently  and  swiftly 
as  he  could  go.  And  still  behind  him  was  the  whoop  of  the  men, 
the  barking  of  the  dogs  and  the  clatter  of  hoofs. 

On  and  on  he  went,  minute  after  precious  minute.  The  ground 
became  heavier  at  every  stride  with  huge  stones  that  tore  his  stock- 
inged legs  and  mangled  his  feet  in  his  thin  skin-shoes.  But  he 
recked  nothing  of  this,  or  rejoiced  in  it,  for  the  way  was  as  rough 
for  the  guards  behind  him,  and  he  could  hear  that  the  horses  had 
been  drawn  up  from  their  gallop  to  a  slow-paced  walk.  At  each 
step  he  scoured  the  bleak  plain  for  shelter,  and  at  length  he  saw 
among  piles  of  vitreous  snags  a  hummock  of  great  slabs  clashed 
together,  with  one  side  rent  open.  It  was  like  nothing  else  on  earth 
but  a  tomb  in  an  old  burial-ground,  where  the  vaults  have  fallen 
in  and  wrecked  the  monuments  above  them.  Through  the  cankered 
lips  of  this  hummock  into  its  gaping  throat,  Jason  pushed  the  un- 
conscious body  of  Sunlocks,  and  crept  in  after  it.  And  lying  there 
in  the  gloom  he  waited  for  the  guards  to  come  on,  and  as  they  came 
he  strained  his  ear  to  catch  the  sound  of  the  words  that  passed 
between  them. 

"No,  no,  we're  on  the  right  course,"  said  one  voice.  How  hol- 
low and  far  away  it  sounded!  "You  saw  his  footmarks  on  the 
moss  that  we've  just  crossed  over,  and  youll  see  them  again  on 
the  clay  we're  coming  to." 

"You're  wrong,"  said  another  voice,  "we  saw  one  man's  foot- 
steps only,  and  we  are  following  two." 

"Don't  I  tell  you  the  red  man  is  carrying  the  other." 

"All  these  miles?  Impossible!  Anyhow  that's  their  course, 
not  this." 

"Why  so?" 

"Because  they're  bound  for  Hafnafiord." 


268  THE   BONDMAN 

"Why  Hafnafiord?" 

"To  take  ship  and  clear  away." 

"Tut,  man,  they've  got  bigger  game  than  that.  They're  going 
to  Reykjavik." 

"What !      To  run  into  the  lion's  mouth  ?" 

"Yes,  and  to  draw  his  teeth,  too.  What  has  the  Captain  always 
said?  Why,  that  the  red  man  has  all  along  been  spy  for  the  fair 
one,  and  we  know  who  he  is.  Let  him  once  set  foot  in  Reykjavik 
and  he'll  do  over  again  what  he  did  before." 

Crouching  over  Sunlocks  in  the  darkness  of  that  grim  vault, 
Jason  heard  these  words  as  the  guards  rode  past  him  in  the  glare 
of  the  hot  sun,  and  not  until  they  were  gone  did  he  draw  his  breath. 
But  just  as  he  lay  back  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  thinking  all  danger 
over,  suddenly  he  heard  a  sound  that  startled  him.  It  was  the  snif- 
fing of  a  dog  outside  his  hiding  place,  and  at  the  next  instant  two 
glittering  eyes  looked  in  upon  him  from  the  gap  whereby  he  had 
entered. 

The  dog  growled,  and  Jason  tried  to  pacify  it.  It  barked,  and 
then  Jason  laid  hold  of  it,  and  gripped  it  about  the  throat  to  silence 
it.  It  fumed  and  fought,  but  Jason  held  it  like  a  vise,  until  there 
came  a  whistle  and  a  call,  and  then  it  struggled  afresh. 

"Erik !"  shouted  a  voice  without.  "Erik,  Erik !"  and  then 
whistle  followed  whistle. 

Thinking  the  creature  would  now  follow  its  master,  Jason 
was  for  releasing  it,  but  before  he  had  yet  fully  done  so  the  dog 
growled  and  barked  again. 

"Erik !  Erik !"  shouted  the  voice  outside,  and  from  the  click- 
clack  of  hoofs  Jason  judged  that  one  of  the  men  was  returning  for 
the  dog. 

Then  Jason  saw  that  there  was  nothing  left  to  him  but  to  quiet 
the  dog,  or  it  would  betray  them  to  their  death ;  so,  while  the  brute 
writhed  in  his  great  hands,  struggling  to  tear  the  flesh  from  them, 
he  laid  hold  of  its  gaping  jaws  and  rived  them  apart  and  broke 
them.  In  a  moment  more  the  dog  was  dead. 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  a  faint  voice  came  from  a  distance, 
crying,  "Sigurd,  Sigurd,  why  are  you  waiting?" 

And  then  another  voice  shouted  back  from  near  at  hand— very 
near,  so  near  as  to  seem  to  be  on  top  of  the  hummock,  "I've  lost  the 
dog;  and  I  could  swear  I  heard  him  growling  somewhere  here- 
abouts not  a  minute  since." 

Jason  was  holding  his  breath  again,  when  suddenly  a  deep  sigh 
came  from  Sunlocks;  then  another,  and  another,  and  then  some 
rambling  words  that  had  no  meaning,  but  made  a  dull  hum  in  that 


THE   BONDMAN  269 

hollow  place.  The  man  outside  must  have  heard  something,  for  he 
called  his  dog  again. 

At. that  Jason's  heart  fell  low,  and  all  he  could  do  he  did — he 
reached  over  the  outstretched  form  of  his  comrade,  and  put  his 
lips  to  the  lips  of  Sunlocks,  just  that  he  might  smother  their  deadly 
babble  with  noiseless  kisses. 

This  must  have  served,  for  when  the  voice  that  was  far  away 
shouted  again  "Sigurd !  Sigurd !"  the  voice  that  was  near  at  hand 
answered,  "Coming."  And  a  moment  later,  Jason  heard  the  sounds 
of  hoofs  going  off  from  him  as  before. 

Then  Michael  Sunlocks  awoke  to  full  consciousness,  and  real- 
ized his  state,  and  what  had  befallen  him,  and  where  he  was,  and 
who  was  with  him.  And  first  he  was  overwhelmed  by  a  tempest 
of  agony  at  feeling  that  he  was  a  lost  and  forlorn  man,  blind  and 
maimed,  as  it  seemed  at  that  time,  for  all  the  rest  of  his  life  to 
come.  After  that  he  cried  for  water,  saying  that  his  throat  was 
baked  and  his  tongue  cracked,  and  Jason  replied  that  all  the  water 
they  had  found  that  day  they  had  been  forced  to  leave  behind  them 
where  they  could  never  return  to  it.  Then  he  poured  out  a  torrent 
of  hot  reproaches,  calling  on  Jason  to  say  why  he  had  been  brought 
out  there  to  go  mad  of  thirst;  and  Jason  listened  to  all  and  made 
no  answer,  but  stood  with  bent  head,  and  quivering  lips,  and  great 
tear-drops  on  his  rugged  cheeks. 

The  spasm  of  agony  and  anger  soon  passed,  as  Jason  knew  it 
must,  and  then,  full  of  remorse,  Sunlocks  saw  everything  in  a  new 
light. 

"What  time  of  day  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"Evening,"  said  Jason. 

"How  many  hours  since  we  left  Krisuvik?" 

"Ten." 

"How  many  miles  from  there?" 

"Twenty." 

"Have  you  carried  me  all  the  way?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  an  audible  sob,  and  then 
Sunlocks  felt  for  Jason's  hand  -and  drew  it  down  to  his  lips.  That 
kiss  was  more  than  Jason  could  bear,  though  he  bore  the  hot 
words  well  enough ;  so  he  made  a  brave  show  of  unconcern,  and  rat- 
tled on  with  hopeful  talk,  saying  where  they  were  to  go,  and  what 
he  was  to  do  for  both  of  them,  and  how  they  would  be  free  men  to- 
morrow. 

And  as  he  talked  of  the  great  task  that  was  before  them,  his 
heart  grew  strong  again,  and  Sunlocks  caught  the  contagion  of 


270  THE   BONDMAN 

his  spirit  and  cried,  "Yes,  yes,  let  us  set  off."  I  can  walk  alone  now. 
Come,  let  us  go." 

At  that  Jason  drew  Sunlocks  out  of  the  hummock,  and  helped 
him  to  his  feet. 

"You  are  weak  still,"  he  said.    "Let  me  carry  you  again." 

"No,  no,  I  am  strong.  Give  me  your  hand.  That's  enough," 
said  Sunlocks. 

"Come,  then,"  said  Jason,  "the  guards  have  gone  that  way  to 
Reykjavik.  It's  this  way  to  Thingvellir — over  the  hill  yonder,  and 
through  the  chasm  of  All  Men,  and  down  by  the  lake  to  the  Mount 
of  Laws." 

Then  Jason  wound  his  right  arm  about  the  waist  of  Sunlocks, 
and  Sunlocks  rested  his  left  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Jason,  and  so 
they  started  out  again  over  that  gaunt  wilderness  that  was  once 
a  sea  of  living  fire.  Bravely  they  struggled  along,  with  words  of 
courage  and  good  cheer  passing  between  them,  and  Sunlocks  tried 
to  be  strong  for  Jason's  sake,  and  Jason  tried  to  be  blind  for  sake  of 
Sunlocks.  If  Sunlocks  stumbled,  Jason  pretended  not  to  know 
it,  though  his  strong  arm  bore  him  up,  and  when  Jason  spoke  of 
water  and  said  they  would  soon  come  to  a  whole  lake  of  it,  Sun- 
locks  pretended  that  he  was  no  longer  thirsty.  Thus,  like  little 
children  playing  at  make-believe,  they  tottered  on,  side  by  side, 
arm  through  arm,  yoked  together  by  a  bond  far  tighter  than  ever 
bound  them  before,  for  the  love  that  was  their  weakness  was 
God's  own  strengtk. 

But  no  power  of  spirit  could  take  the  place  of  power  of  body, 
and  Sunlocks  grew  faint  and  very  feeble. 

"Is  the  sun  still  shining?"  he  asked  at  one  time. 

"Yes,"  said  Jason. 

Whereupon  Sunlocks  added,  sadly,  "And  I  am  blind— blind- 
blind." 

"Courage,"  whispered  Jason,  "the  lake  is  yonder.  I  can  see 
it  plainly.  We'll  have  water  soon." 

"It's  not  that,"  said  Sunlocks,  "but  something  else  that  troubles 
me." 

"What  else?"  said  Jason. 

"That  I'm  blind,  and  sick,  and  have  a  broken  hand,  a  broken 
heart,  and  a  broken  brain,  and  am  not  worth  saving." 

"Lean  heavier  on  my  shoulder  and  wind  your  arm  about  my 
neck,"  whispered  Jason. 

Sunlocks  struggled  on  a  little  longer,  and  then  the  power  of  life 
fell  low  in  him,  and  he  could  walk  no  farther.  "Let  me  go,"  he 
said,  "I  will  lie  down  here  a  while." 


THE    BONDMAN  271 

And  when  Jason  had  dropped  him  gently  to  the  ground,  think- 
ing he  meant  to  rest  a  little  and  then  continue  his  journey,  Sunlocks 
said,  very  gently: 

"Now,  save  yourself.  I  am  only  a  burden  to  you.  Escape,  or 
you  will  be  captured  and  taken  back." 

"What?"  cried  Jason,  "and  leave  you  here  to  die?" 

"That  may  be  my  fate  in  any  case,"  said  Sunlocks  faintly,  "so 
go,  brother — go — farewell — and  God  bless  you !" 

"Courage,"  whispered  Jason  again.  "I  know  a  farm  not  far 
away,  and  the  good  man  that  keeps  it.  He  will  give  us  milk  and 
bread ;  and  we'll  sleep  under  his  roof  to-night,  and  start  afresh  in 
the  morning." 

But  the  passionate  voice  fell  on  a  deaf  ear,  for  Sunlocks  was 
unconscious  before  half  the  words  were  spoken.  Then  Jason  lifted 
him  to  his  shoulder  once  more,  and  set  out  for  the  third  time  over 
the  rocky  waste. 

It  would  be  a  weary  task  to  tell  of  the  adventures  that  after- 
ward befell  him.  In  the  fading  sunlight  of  that  day  he  crossed 
trackless  places,  void  of  any  sound  or  sight  of  life ;  silent,  save  for 
the  hoarse  croak  of  the  raven;  without  sign  of  human  foregoer, 
except  some  pyramidal  heaps  of  stones,  that  once  served  as 
mournful  sentinels  to  point  the  human  scapegoat  to  the  cities 
of  refuge. 

He  came  up  to  the  lake  and  saw  that  it  was  poisonous,  for  the 
plovers  that  flew  over  it  fell  dead  from  its  fumes;  and  when  he 
reached  the  farm  he  found  it  a  ruin,  the  good  farmer  gone,  and  his 
hearth  cold.  He  toiled  through  mud  and  boggy  places,  and  crossed 
narrow  bridle  paths  along  perpendicular  sides  of  precipices.  The 
night  came  on  as  he  walked,  the  short  night  of  that  northern  sum- 
mer, where  the  sun  never  sets  in  blessed  darkness  that  weary  eyes 
may  close  in  sleep,  but  a  blood-red  glow  burns  an  hour  in  the 
northern  sky  at  midnight,  and  then  the  bright  light  rises  again 
over  the  unrested  world.  He  was  faint  for  bread,  and  athirst  for 
water,  but  still  he  struggled  on — on — on — on — over  the  dismal 
chaos. 

Sometimes  when  the  pang  of  thirst  was  strongest  He  remem- 
bered what  he  had  heard  of  the  madness  that  comes  of  it — tHat  the 
afflicted  man  walks  round  in  a  narrow  circle,  round  and  round  over 
the  self-same  place  (as  if  the  devil's  bridle  bound  him  like  an  un- 
broken horse)  until  nature  fails  and  he  faints  and  falls.  Yet  think- 
ing of  himself  so,  in  that  weary  spot,  with  Sunlocks  over  him,  he 
shuddered,  but  .took  heart  of  strength  and  struggled  on. 

And  all  this  time  Sunlocks  lay  inert  and  lifeless  on  his  shoulder, 


272  THE   BONDMAN 

in  a  deep  unconsciousness  that  was  broken  by  two  moments  only 
of  complete  sensibility.     In  the  first  of  these  he  said: 

"I  must  have  been  dreaming,  for  I  thought  I  had  found  my 
brother." 

"Your  brother?"  said  Jason. 

"Yes,  my  brother;  for  I  have  got  one,  though  I  have  never 
seen  him,"  said  Sunlocks.  "We  were  not  together  in  childhood, 
as  other  brothers  are,  but  when  we  grew  to  be  men  I  set  out  in 
search  of  him.  I  thought  I  had  found  him  at  last — but  it  was  in 
hell." 

"God-a-mercy !"  cried  Jason. 

"And  when  I  looked  at  him/'  said  Sunlocks,  "it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  was  you.  Yes,  you ;  for  He  had  the  face  of  my  yoke-fellow 
at  the  mines.  I  thought  you  were  my  brother  indeed." 

"Lie  still,  brother,"  whispered  Jason ;  "lie  still  and  rest." 

In  the  second  moment  of  his  consciousness  Sunlocks  said,  "Do 
you  think  the  judges  will  listen  to  us?" 

"They  must — they  shall,"  said  Jason. 

"But  the  Governor  himself  may  be  one  of  them,"  said  Sun- 
locks. 

"What  matter?"  said  Jason. 

"He  is  a  hard  man — do  you  know  who  he  is  ?" 

"No,"  said  Jason;  but  he  added,  quickly,  "Wait!  Ah,  now  I 
remember.  Will  he  be  there?" 

"Yes." 

"So  much  the  better." 
,    "Why?"  said  Sunlocks. 

And  Jason  answered,  with  heat  and  flame  of  voice,  "Because  I 
hate  and  loathe  him." 

"Has  he  wronged  you  also?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"Yes,"  said  Jason,  "and  I  have  waited  and  watched  five  years 
to  requite  him." 

"Have  you  never  yet  met  with  him  ?" 

"Never!  But  I'll  see  him  now.  And  if  he  denies  me  this  jus- 
tice. I'll—" 

"What?" 

At  that  he  paused,  and  then  said  quickly,  "No  matter." 

But  Sunlocks  understood  and  said,  "God  forbid  it." 

Half  an  hour  later,  Red  Jason,  still  carrying  Michael  Sun- 
locks,  was  passing  through  the  chasm  of  All  Men,  a  grand,  gloomy 
diabolical  fissure  opening  into  the  valley  of  Thingvellir.  It  was 
morning  of  the  day  following  his  escape  from  the  Sulphur  Mines 
of  Krisuvik.  The  air  was  clear,  the  sun  was  bright,  and  a  dull 


THE   BONDMAN  273 

sound,  such  as  the  sea  makes  when  far  away,  came  up  from  the 
plain  below.  It  was  a  deep  multitudinous  hum  of  many  voices. 
Jason  heard  it,  and  his  heavy  face  lightened  with  the  vividness  of 
a  grim  joy. 

CHAPTER   V 

THE     MOUNT     OF     LAWS 
I 

AND  now,  that  we  may  stride  on  the  faster,  we  must  step  back 
a  pace  or  two.  What  happened  to  Greeba  after  she  parted  from 
her  father  at  Krisuvik,  and  took  up  her  employment  as  nurse  to 
the  sick  prisoners,  we  partly  know  already  from  the  history  of  Red 
Jason  and  Michael  Sunlocks.  Accused  of  unchastity,  she  was 
turned  away  from  the  hospital ;  and  suspected  of  collusion  to  effect 
the  escape  of  some  prisoner  unrecognized,  she  was  ordered  to  leave 
the  neighborhood  of  the  Sulphur  Mines.  But  where  her  affections 
are  at  stake  a  woman's  wit  is  more  than  a  match  for  a  man's  cun- 
ning, and  Greeba  contrived  to  remain  at  Krisuvik.  For  her  ma- 
terial she  still  had  the  larger  part  of  the  money  that  her  brothers, 
in  their  scheming  selfishness,  had  brought  her,  and  she  had  her 
child  to  cheer  her  solitude.  It  was  a  boy,  unchristened  as  yet, 
save  in  the  secret  place  of  her  heart,  where  it  bore  a  name  that  she 
dared  not  speak.  And  if  it£>life  was  her  shame  in  the  eyes  of  the 
good  folk  who  gave  her  shelter,  it  was  a  dear  and  sweet  dishonor, 
for  well  she  knew  and  loved  to  remember  that  one  word  from  her 
would  turn  it  to  glory  and  to  joy. 

"If  only  I  dare  tell,"  she  would  whisper  into  her  babe's  ear 
again  and  again.  "If  I  only  dare!" 

But  its  father's  name  she  never  uttered,  and  so  .with  pride  for 
her  secret,  and  honor  for  her  disgrace,  she  clung  the  closer  to  both, 
though  they  were  sometimes  hard  to  'bear,  and  she  thought  a 
thousand  times  they  were  a  loving  and  true  revenge  on  him  that 
had  doubted  her  love  and  told  her  she  had  married  him  for  the 
poor  glory  of  his  place. 

Not  daring  to  let  herself  be  seen  within  range  of  the  Sulphur 
Mines,  she  sought  out  the  prisoner-priest  from  time  to  time,  where 
he  lived  in  the  partial  liberty  of  the  Free  Command,  and  learned 
from  him  such  tidings  of  her  husband  as  came  his  way.  The  good 
man  knew  nothing  of  the  identity  of  Michael  Sunlocks  in  that 
world  of  bondage  where  all  identity  was  lost,  save  that  A25  was  the 
husband  of  the  woman  who  waited  without.  But  that  was  Greeba's 
sole  secret,  and  the  true  soul  kept  it. 


274 


THE   BONDMAN 


And  so  the  long  winter  passed,  and  the  summer  came,  and 
Greeba  was  content  to  live  by  the  side  of  Sunlocks,  content  to 
breathe  the  air  he  breathed,  to  have  the  same  sky  above  her,  to 
share  the  same  sunshine  and  the  same  rain,  only  repining  when  she 
remembered  that  while  she  was  looking  for  love  into  the  eyes 
of  their  child,  he  was  slaving  like  a  beast  of  burden;  but  waiting, 
waiting,  waiting,  withal  for  the  chance — she  knew  not  what — that 
must  release  him  yet,  she  knew  not  when. 

Her  great  hour  came  at  length,  but  an  awful  blow  came  with 
it.  One  day  the  prisoner-priest  hurried  up  to  the  farm  where  she 
lived,  and  said,  "I  have  sad  news  for  you;  forgive  me;  prisoner 
A 25  has  met  with  an  accident." 

She  did  not  stay  to  hear  more,  but  with  her  child  in  her  arms 
she  hurried  away  to  the  Mines,  and  there  in  the  tempest  of  her 
trouble  the  secret  of  months  went  to  the  winds  in  an  instant. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  cried.  "Let  me  see  him.  He  is  my  hus- 
band." 

"Your  husband !"  said  the  warders,  and  without  more  ado  they 
laid  hands  upon  her  and  carried  her  off  to  their  Captain. 

"This  woman,"  they  said,  "turns  out  to  be  the  wife  of  A25," 

"As  I  suspected,"  the  Captain  answered. 

"Where  is  my  husband?"  Greeba  cried.  "What  accident  has 
befallen  him  ?  Take  me  to  him." 

"First  tell  me  why  you  came  to  this  place,"  said  the  Captain. 

"To  be  near  my  husband,"  said  Greeba. 

"Nothing  else?" 

"Nothing." 

"Who  is  this  other  man  ?"  said  the  Captain. 

"What  man?"  said  Greeba. 

Then  they  told  her  that  her  husband  was  gone,  having  been 
carried  off  by  a  fellow-prisoner  who  had  effected  the  escape  of 
both  of  them. 

"Escaped !"  cried  Greeba,  with  a  look  of  bewilderment,  glancing 
from  face  to  face  of  the  men  about  her.  'Then  it  is  not  true  that 
he  has  met  with  an  accident.  Thank  God,  oh !  thank  God  1"  And 
she  clutched  her  child  closer  to  her  breast,  and  kissed  it. 

"We  know  nothing  of  that  either  way,"  said  the  Captain.  "But 
tell  us  who  and  what  is  this  other  man?  His  number  here  was 
625.  His  name  is  Jason." 

At  that,  Greeba  gazed  up  again  with  a  terrified  look  of  inquiry. 

"Jason?"  she  cried. 

"Yes,  who  is  he  ?"  the  Captain  asked. 

And  Greeba  answered,  after  a  pause,  "His  own  brother." 


THE   BONDMAN  275 

"We  might  have  thought  as  much,"  said  the  Captain. 

There  was  another  pause,  and  then  Greeba  said,  "Yes,  his  own 
brother,  who  has  followed  him  all  his  life  to  kill  him." 

The  Captain  smiled  upon  his  warders  and  said,  "It  didn't  look 
like  it,  madam." 

"But  it  is  true,"  said  Greeba. 

"He  has  been  your  husband's  best  friend,"  said  the  Captain. 

"He  is  my  husband's  worst  enemy,"  said  Greeba. 

"He  has  carried  him  off,  I  tell  you,"  said  the  Captain. 

"Then  it  is  only  that  he  may  have  his  wicked  will  of  him," 
said  Greeba.  "Ah,  sir,  you  will  tell  me  I  don't  know  what  I'm  say- 
ing. But  I  know  too  well.  It  was  for  attempting  my  husband's  life 
that  Jason  was  sent  to  this  place.  That  was  before  your  time ;  but 
look  and  see  if  I  speak  the  truth.  Now  I  know  it  is  false  that  my 
husband  is  only  injured.  Would  he  were!  Would  he  were!  Yet, 
what  am  I  saying?  Mercy  me,  what  am  I  saying?  But,  only 
think,  he  has  been  carried  off  to  his  death.  I  know  he  has — I  am 
sure  he  has;  and  better,  a  thousand  thousand  times  better  that  he 
should  be  here,  however  injured,  with  me  to  nurse  him!  But  what 
am  I  saying  again  ?  Indeed,  I  don't  know  what  I  am  saying.  Oh, 
sir,  forgive  me ;  and  heaven  forgive  me,  also.  But  send  after  that 
man.  Send  instantly.  Don't  lose  an  hour  more.  Oh,  believe  me, 
sir,  trust  me,  sir,  for  I  am  a  broken-hearted  woman;  and  why 
should  I  not  speak  the  truth  ?" 

"All  this  is  very  strange,"  said  the  Captain.  "But  set  your 
mind  at  ease  about  the  man  Jason.  The  guards  have  already  gone 
in  pursuit  of  him,  and  he  can  not  escape.  It  is  not  for  me  to  say 
your  story  is  not  true,  though  the  facts,  as  we  know  them,  discredit 
it.  But,  true  or  not,  you  shall  tell  it  to  the  Governor  as  you  have 
told  it  to  me,  so  prepare  to  leave  Krisuvik  immediately." 

And  in  less  than  an  hour  more  Greeba  was  riding  between  two 
of  the  guards  toward  the  valley  of  Thingvellir. 


JORGEN  JORGENSEN  had  thrice  hardened  his  heart  against  Michael 
Sunlocks :  first,  when  he  pushed  Sunlocks  into  the  Althing,  and 
found  his  selfish  ends  were  not  thereby  in  the  way  of  advancement ; 
next,  when  he  fell  from  his  place  and  Sunlocks  took  possession  of 
it;  again,  when  he  regained  his  stool  and  Sunlocks  was  condemned 
to  the  Sulphur  Mines.  But  most  of  all  he  hated  Sunlocks  when 
old  Adam  Fairbrother  came  to  Reykjavik  and  demanded  for  him,  as 
an  English  subject,  the  benefit  of  judge  and  jury. 


276  THE   BONDMAN 

"We  know  of  no  jury  here,"  said  Jorgen;  "and  English  subject 
or  not  English  subject,  this  man  has  offended  against  the  laws  of 
Denmark." 

"Then  the  laws  of  Denmark  shall  condemn  him,"  said  Adam, 
bravely,  "and  not  the  caprice  of  a  tyrant  governor." 

"Keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  old  head,  sir,"  said  Jorgen,  "or  you 
may  learn  to  your  cost  how  far  that  caprice  can  go." 

"I  care  nothing  for  your  threats,  sir,"  said  Adam,  "and  I  mean 
to  accuse  you  before  your  master." 

"Do  your  worst,"  said  Jorgen,  "and  take  care  how  you  do  it." 

And  at  first  Adam's  worst  seemed  likely  to  be  little,  for  hardly 
had  he  set  foot  in  Reykjavik  when  he  was  brought  front  to  front 
with  the  material  difficulty  that  the  few  pounds  with  which  he  had 
set  out  were  spent.  Money  was  justice,  and  justice  money,  on  that 
rock  of  the  sea,  as  elsewhere,  and  on  the  horns  of  his  dilemma 
Adam  bethought  him  to  write  to  his  late  master,  the  Duke  of  Athol, 
.explaining  his  position,  and  asking  for  the  loan  of  fifty  pounds.  A 
long  month  passed  before  he  got  back  his  answer.  The  old  Duke 
sent  forty  pounds  as  a  remonstrance  against  Adam's  improvidence, 
and  stern  counsel  to  him  to  return  forthwith  to  the  homes  of  his 
children.  In  the  meantime  the  old  Bishop,  out  of  love  of  Michael 
Sunlocks  and  sympathy  with  Greeba,  had  taken  Adam  into  his 
house  at  Reykjavik.  From  there  old  Adam  had  sent  petitions  to 
the  Minister  at  Copenhagen,  petitions  to  the  Danish  Rigsdag,  and 
finally  petitions  to  the  Danish  King.  His  reward  had  been  small, 
for  no  justice,  or  promise  of  justice,  could  he  get. 

But  Jorgen  Jorgensen  had  sat  no  easier  on  his  seat  for  Adam's 
zealous  efforts.  He  had  been  harried  out  of  his  peace  by  Govern- 
ment inquiries,  and  terrified  by  Government  threats.  But  he  had 
wriggled,  he  had  lied,  he  had  used  subterfuge  after  subterfuge,  and 
so  pushed  on  the  evil  day  of  final  reckoning. 

And  while  his  hoary  head  lay  ill  at  ease  because  of  the  troubles 
that  came  from  Copenhagen,  the  gorge  of  his  stomach  rose  at  the 
bitter  waters  he  was  made  to  drink  at  Reykjavik.  He  heard  the 
name  of  Michael  Sunlocks  on  every  lip,  as  a  name  of  honor,  a  name 
of  affection,  a  name  to  conjure  with  whenever  and  wherever  men 
talked  of  high  talents,  justice,  honor,  and  truth. 

Jorgen  perceived  that  the  people  of  Iceland  had  recovered  from 
the  first  surprise  and  suspicion  that  followed  on  the  fall  of  their 
Republic,  and  no  longer  saw  Michael  Sunlocks  as  their  betrayer, 
but  had  begun  to  regard  him  as  their  martyr.  They  loved  him 
still.  If  their  hour  ever  came  they  would  restore  him.  On  the 
other  hand,  Jorgen  realized  that  he  himself  was  hated  where  he 


THE   BONDMAN  277 

was  not  despised,  jeered  at  where  he  was  not  feared,  and  that  the 
men  whom  he  had  counted  upon  because  he  had  bought  them  with 
the  places  in  his  gift,  smiled  loftily  upon  him  as  upon  one  who  had 
fallen  on  his  second  childhood.  And  so  Jorgen  Jorgensen  hardened 
his  heart  against  Michael  Sunlocks,  and  vowed  that  the  Sulphur 
Mines  of  Krisuvik  should  see  the  worst  and  last  of  him. 

He  heard  of  Jason,  too,  that  he  was  not  dead,  as  they  had  sup- 
posed, but  alive,  and  that  he  had  been  sent  to  the  Mines  for  attempt- 
ing the  life  of  Sunlocks.  That  attempt  seemed  to  him  to  come  of  a 
natural  passion,  and  as  often  as  he  spoke  of  it  he  warmed  up  visibly, 
not  out  of  any  human  tenderness  toward  Jason,  but  with  a  sense  of 
wild  triumph  over  Sunlocks.  And  the  more  he  thought  of  Jason, 
the  firmer  grew  his  resolve  to  take  him  out  of  the  Sulphur  Mines 
and  place  him  by  his  side,  not  that  his  old  age  needed  a  stay,  not 
that  he  was  a  lonely  old  man,  and  Jason  was  his  daughter's  son,  but 
only  because  Jason  hated  Sunlocks  and  would  crush  him  if  by 
chance  he  rose  again. 

With  such  thoughts  uppermost  he  went  down  to  Krisuvik,  and 
there  his  bitter  purpose  met  with  a  shock.  He  found  Jason  the  sole 
ally  of  Michael  Sunlocks,  his  friend,  his  defender  and  champion 
against  tyranny.  It  was  then  that  he  ordered  the  ruthless  punish- 
ment of  Sunlocks,  that  he  should  be  nailed  by  his  right  hand  to  a  log 
of  driftwood,  with  meat  and  drink  within  sight  but  out  of  reach  of 
him,  and  a  huge  knife  by  his  side.  And  when  Jason  had  liberated 
Sunlocks  from  this  inhuman  cruelty,  and  the  two  men,  dearest  foes 
and  deadliest  friends,  were  brought  before  him  for  their  punish- 
ment, the  gall  of  Jorgen's  fate  seemed  to  suffocate  him.  "Strap 
them  up  together,"  he  cried,  "leg  to  leg  and  arm  to  arm."  Thus 
he  thought  to  turn  their  love  to  hate ;  but  he  kept  his  own  counsel, 
and  left  the  Sulphur  Mines  without  saying  what  evil  dream  had 
brought  him  there,  or  confessing  to  his  Danish  officers  the  relation 
wherein  this  other  prisoner  stood  to  him,  for  secrecy  is  the  chain- 
armor  of  the  tyrant. 

Back  in  Reykjavik  he  comforted  himself  with  the  assurance  that 
Michael  Sunlocks  must  die.  "There  was  death  in  his  face,"  he 
thought,  "and  he  can  not  last  a  month  longer.  Besides,  he  will  fall 
to  fighting  with  the  other,  and  the  other  will  surely  kill  him.  Blind 
fools,  both  of  them !" 

In  this  mood  he  made  ready  for  Thingvellir,  and  set  out  with 
all  his  people.  Since  the  revolution,  he  had  kept  a  bodyguard  of 
five-and-twenty  men,  and  with  this  following  he  was  crossing  the 
slope  of  the  Basket  Hill,  behind  the  capital,  when  he  saw  half  a 
score  of  the  guards  from  Krisuvik  riding  at  a  gallop  from  the 


B78  THE   BONDMAN 

direction  of  Hafnafiord.  They  were  the  men  who  had  been  sent 
in  pursuit  of  Red  Jason  and  Michael  Sunlocks,  the  same  that  had 
passed  them  in  the  hummock,  where  the  carcass  of  the  dog  still  lay. 

Then  Jorgen  Jorgensen  received  news  that  terrified  him. 

Michael  Sunlocks  had  escaped,  and  Red  Jason  had  escaped  with 
him.  They  had  not  been  seen  at  Hafnafiord,  and  no  ship  had  set 
sail  from  there  since  yesterday.  Never  a  trace  of  them  had  been 
found  on  any  of  the  paths  from  Krisuvik,  and  it  was  certain  that 
they  must  be  in  the  interior  still.  Would  his  Excellency  lend  them 
ten  men  more  to  scour  the  country? 

Such  was  the  message  of  the  guards,  and  at  hearing  it  Jorgen's 
anger  and  fear  overmastered  him. 

"Fools !  Blockheads !  Asses !"  he  cried.  "The  man  is  making 
for  Reykjavik.  He  knows  what  he  is  doing  if  you  do  not.  Is  not 
this  the  time  of  the  Althing,  and  must  I  not  leave  Reykjavik  for 
Thingvellir?  He  is  making  for  Reykjavik  now !  Once  let  him  set 
foot  there,  and  these  damned  Icelanders  will  rise  at  the  sight  of 
him.  Then  you  may  scour  the  country  till  you  fall  dead  and  turn 
black,  and  he  will  only  laugh  at  the  sight  of  you.  Back,  you  block- 
heads, back!  Back  to  Reykjavik,  every  man  of  you!  And  I  am 
going  back  with  you." 

Thus  driven  by  his  frantic  terror,  Jorgen  Jorgensen  returned 
to  the  capital  and  searched  every  house  and  hovel,  every  hole  and 
sty,  for  the  two  fugitives;  and  when  he  had  satisfied  himself  that 
they  were  not  anywhere  within  range  of  Reykjavik,  his  fears  re- 
membered Thingvellir,  and  what  mischief  might  be  going  forward 
in  his  absence.  So  next  day  he  left  his  bodyguard  with  the  guard 
from  Krisuvik  to  watch  the  capital,  and  set  out  alone  for  the 
Mount  of  Laws. 


The  lonely  valley  of  Thingvellir  was  alive  that  morning  with 
a  great  throng  of  people.  They  came  from  the  west  by  the  Chasm 
of  All  Men,  from  the  east  by  the  Chasm  of  Ravens,  and  from  the 
south  by  the  lake.  Troop  after  troop  flowed  into  the  vast  amphi- 
theatre that  lies  between  dark  hills  and  great  jokulls  tipped  with 
snow.  They  pitched  their  tents  on  the  green  patch,  under  the  fells 
to  the  north,  and  tying  their  ponies  together,  head  to  tail,  they 
turned  them  loose  to  graze.  Hundreds  of  tents  were  there  by  early 
morning,  gleaming  white  in  the  sunlight,  and  tens  of  hundreds  of 
ponies,  shaggy  and  unkempt,  grubbed  among  the  short  grass  that 
grew  between. 

Near  the  middle  of  the  plain  stood  the  Mount  of  Laws,  a  lava 


THE   BONDMAN  279 

island  of  oval  shape,  surrounded  by  a  narrow  stream,  and  bounded 
by  overhanging  walls  cut  deep  with  fissures.  Around  this  mount 
the  people  gathered.  There  friend  met  friend,  foe  met  foe,  rival  met 
rival,  northmen  met  southmen,  the  Westmann  islander  met  the 
Grimsey  islander,  and  the  man  from  Seydisfiord  met  the  man  from 
Patriksfiord.  And  because  the  Althing  gathered  only  every  other 
year,  many  musty  kisses  went  round,  with  snuff-boxes  after  them, 
among  those  who  had  not  met  before  for  two  long  years. 

It  was  a  vast  assembly,  chiefly  of  men,  in  their  homespun  and 
sheepskins  and  woolen  stockings,  cross-gartered  with  hemp  from 
ankle  to  knee.  Women,  too,  and  young  girls  and  children  were 
there,  all  wearing  their  Sunday  best.  And  in  those  first  minutes 
of  their  meeting,  before  the  Althing  began,  the  talk  was  of  crops 
and  stock,  of  the  weather,  and  what  sheep  had  been  lost  in  the 
last  two  hard  winters.  The  day  had  opened  brightly,  with  clear 
air  and  bright  sunshine,  but  the  blue  sky  had  soon  become  overcast 
with  threatening  clouds,  and  this  led  to  stories  of  strange  signs  in 
the  heavens,  and  unaccustomed  noises  on  the  earth  and  under  it. 

A  man  from  the  south  spoke  of  rain  of  black  dust  as  having 
fallen  three  nights  before  until  the  ground  was  covered  deep  with 
it.  Another  man,  from  the  foot  of  Hekla  told  of  a  shock  of  earth- 
quake that  had  lately  been  felt  there,  traveling  northeast  to  south- 
west. A  third  man  spoke  of  grazing  his  horse  on  the  wild  oats  of 
a  glen  that  he  had  passed  through,  when  a  line  of  some  twenty  col- 
umns of  smoke  burst  suddenly  upon  his  view.  All  this  seemed  to 
pass  from  lip  to  lip  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  when  young 
men  asked  what  the  signs  might  mean,  old  men  lifted  both  hands 
and  shook  their  heads,  and  prayed  that  the  visitations  which  their 
island  had  seen  before  might  never  come  to  it  again. 

Such  was  the  talk,  and  such  the  mood  of  the  people  when  the 
hour  arrived  for  the  business  of  the  Althing  to  begin,  and  then 
all  eyes  turned  to  the  little  wooden  Thing  House  by  the  side  of  the 
church,  wherein  the  Thing-men  were  wont  to  gather  for  their  pro- 
cession to  the  Mount  of  Laws.  And  when  the  hour  passed,  and  the 
procession  had  not  yet  appeared,  the  whisper  went  around  that 
the  Governor  had  not  arrived,  and  that  the  delay  was  meant  to 
humor  him.  At  that  the  people  began  to  mutter  among  themselves, 
for  the  slumbering  fire  of  their  national  spirit  had  been  stirred. 
By  his  tardy  coming  the  Governor  meant  to  humiliate  them !  But, 
Governor  or  no  Goverenor,  let  the  Althing  begin  its  sitting.  Who 
was  the  Governor,  that  the  Althing  should  wait  for  him?  What 
was  the  Althing  that  it  should  submit  to  the  whim  or  the  will  of  any 
Governor  ? 


28o  THE   BONDMAN 

Within  the  Thing  House,  as  well  as  outside  of  it,  such  hot  pro- 
tests must  have  had  sway,  for  presently  the  door  of  the  little  place 
was  thrown  open  and  the  six  and  thirty  Thing-men  came  out. 

Then  followed  the  solemn  ceremonies  that  had  been  observed 
on  the  spot  for  nigh  a  thousand  years.  First  walked  the  Chief 
Judge,  carrying  the  sword  of  justice,  and  behind  him  walked  his 
magistrates  and  Thing-men.  They  ascended  to  the  Mount  by  a 
flight  of  steps  cut  out  of  its  overhanging  walls.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment another  procession,  that  of  the  old  Bishop  and  his  clergy, 
came  out  of  the  church  and  ascended  to  the  Mount  by  a  similar 
flight  of  steps  cut  out  of  the  opposite  side  of  it.  The  two  com- 
panies parted,  the  Thing-men  to  the  north  and  the  clergy  to  the 
south,  leaving  the  line  of  this  natural  causeway  open  and  free,  save 
for  the  Judge,  who  stood  at  the  head  of  it,  with  the  Bishop  to  the 
right  of  him  and  the  Governor's  empty  place  to  the  left. 

And  first  the  Bishop  offered  prayer  for  the  sitting  of  the  Althing 
that  was  then  to  begin. 

"Thou  Judge  of  Israel,"  he  prayed,  in  the  terrible  words  which 
had  descended  to  him  through  centuries,  "Thou  that  sittest  upon 
the  cherubims,  come  down  and  help  Thy  people.  O,  most  mighty 
God,  who  art  more  pleased  with  the  sacrifice  of  thanksgiving  than 
with  the  burnt  offerings  of  bullocks  and  goats,  keep  now  our 
mouths  from  guile  and  deceit,  from  slander  and  from  obloquy.  O 
Lord  God  most  holy,  O  Lord  most  mighty,  endue  Thy  ministers 
with  righteousness.  Give  them  wisdom  that  they  may  judge  wisely. 
Give  them  mercy  that  they  may  judge  mercifully.  Let  them  judge 
this  nation  as  Thou  wilt  judge  Thy  people.  Let  them  remember 
that  he  who  takes  the  name  of  justice  for  his  own  profit  or  hatred 
or  revenge  is  worse  than  the  vulture  that  watches  for  the  carcass. 
Let  them  not  forget  that  howsoever  high  they  stand  or  proudly  they 
bear  themselves,  nothing  shall  they  take  from  hence  but  the  oak 
for  their  coffin.  Let  them  be  sure  that  when  Thou  shalt  appear 
with  a  consuming  fire  before  Thee  and  a  tempest  round  about  Thee, 
calling  the  heaven  and  the  earth  together,  no  portion  can  they  have 
in  that  day  like  to  the  portion  of  Thine  inheritance." 

The  fierce  prayer  came  to  an  end,  and  then  the  Judge,  holding 
his  sword  erect,  read  his  charge  and  repeated  his  oath,  ^to  deal 
justly  between  man  and  man,  even  as  the  sword  stood  upright  be- 
fore him.  And  the  vast  assembly  of  rude  men  in  sheepskins  and  Jn 
homespun  looked  on  and  listened,  all  silent  and  solemn,  all  worship- 
ful of  law  and  reverent  of  its  forms. 

The  oath  being  taken,  the  Judge  had  laid  the  sword  aside  and 
begun  to  promulgate  the  new  laws,  reading  them  clause  by  clause, 


THE   BONDMAN  281 

first  in  Icelandic  and  then  in  Danish,  when  there  was  an  uneasy 
movement  at  the  outskirts  of  th«  crowd  to  the  west  of  the  Mount. 

"The  Governor,"  whispered  one.  "It's  himself,"  muttered  an- 
other. "He's  here  at  last,"  murmured  a  third,  and  dark  were  the 
faces  turned  round  to  see.  It  was  the  Governor,  indeed,  and  he 
pushed  his  way  through  the  closely  packed  people,  who  saw  him 
coming,  but  stood  together  like  a  wall  until  riven  apart  by  his 
pony's  feet.  At  the  causeway  he  dismounted  and  stepped  up  to  the 
top  of  the  Mount.  He  looked  old  and  feeble  and  torn  by  evil  pas- 
sions; his  straight  gray  hair  hung  like  a  blasted  sheaf  on  to  his 
shoulders,  his  forehead  was  blistered  with  blue  veins,  his  cheeks 
were  guttered  with  wrinkles,  his  little  eyes  were  cruel,  his  jaw  was 
broad  and  heavy,  and  his  mouth  was  hard  and  square. 

The  Judge  made  him  no  obeisance,  but  went  on  with  his  read- 
ing. The  Bishop  seemed  not  to  see  him,  but  gazed  steadfastly 
forward.  The  Thing-men  gave  no  sign. 

He  stood  a  moment,  and  looked  around,  and  the  people  below 
could  see  his  wrath  rising  like  a  white  hand  across  his  haggard 
face.  Then  he  interrupted  and  said,  "Chief  Justice,  I  have  some- 
thing to  say." 

All  heard  the  words,  and  the  Speaker  stopped,  and,  amid  the 
breathless  silence  of  the  people,  he  answered  quietly:  "There  will 
be  a  time  and  a  place  for  that,  your  Excellency." 

"The  time  is  now,  and  the  place  is  here,"  cried  Jorgen  Jorgen- 
sen,  in  a  tense  voice,  and  quivering  with  anger.  "Listen  to  me. 
The  rebel  and  traitor  who  once  usurped  the  government  of  this 
island  has  escaped." 

"Escaped !"  cried  a  hundred  voices. 

"Michael  Sunlocks !"  cried  as  many  more. 

And  a  wave  of  excitement  passed  over  the  vast  assembly. 

"Yes,  Michael  Sunlocks  has  escaped,"  cried  Jorgen  Jorgensen. 
"That  scoundrel  is  at  liberty.  He  is  free  to  do  his  wicked  work 
again.  Men  of  Iceland,  I  call  on  you  to  help  me.  I  call  on  you 
to  help  the  Crown  of  Denmark.  The  traitor  must  be  taken.  I  call 
on  you  to  take  him." 

A  deep  murmur  ran  through  the  closely  pressed  people. 

"You've  got  your  guards,"  shouted  a  voice  from  below.  "Why 
do  you  come  to  us?" 

"Because,"  cried  Jorgen  Jorgensen,  "my  guards  are  protecting 
Reykjavik,  and  because  they  might  scour  your  island  a  hundred 
years  and  never  find  what  they  looked  for." 

"Thank  God!"  muttered  another  voice  from  below. 

"But  you  know  it,  every  fell  and  fiord,"  cried  Jorgen  Jorgensen, 


282  THE   BONDMAN 

"and  never  a  toad  could  skulk  under  a  stone  but  you  would  root  him 
out  of  it.  Chief  Justice,"  he  added,  sweeping  about,  "I  have  a  re- 
quest to  make  of  you." 

"What  is  it,  your  Excellency?"  said  the  Judge. 

"That  you  should  adjourn  this  Althing  so  that  every  man  here 
present  may  go  out  in  search  of  the  traitor." 

Then  a  loud  involuntary  murmur  of  dissent  rose  from  the  peo- 
ple, and  at  the  same  moment  the  Judge  said  in  bewilderment: 
"What  can  your  Excellency  mean?" 

"I  mean,"  cried  Jorgen  Jorgensen,  "that  if  you  adjourn  this 
Althing  for  three  days,  the  traitor  will  be  taken.  If  not,  he  will  be 
at  liberty  as  many  years.  Will  you  do  it?" 

"Your  Excellency,"  said  the  Judge,  "the  Althing  has  lived  nigh 
upon  a  thousand  years,  and  every  other  year  for  that  thousand 
years  it  has  met  on  this  ancient  ground,  but  never  once  since  it 
began  has  the  thing  you  ask  been  done." 

"Let  it  be  done  now,"  cried  Jorgen  Jorgensen.  "Will  you 
doit?" 

"We  will  do  our  duty  by  your  Excellency,"  said  the  Judge,  "and 
we  will  expect  your  Excellency  to  do  your  duty  by  us." 

"But  this  man  is  a  traitor,"  cried  Jorgen  Jorgensen,  "and  it  is 
your  duty  to  help  me  to  capture  him.  Will  you  do  it?" 

"And  this  day  is  ours  by  ancient  right  and  custom,"  said  the 
Judge,  "and  it  is  your  duty  to  stand  aside." 

"I  am  here  for  the  King  of  Denmark,"  cried  Jorgen  Jorgensen, 
"and  I  ask  you  to  adjourn  this  Althing.  Will  you  do  it?" 

"And  we  are  here  for  the  people  of  Iceland,"  said  the  Judge, 
"and  we  ask  you  to  step  back  and  let  us  go  on." 

Then  Jorgen  Jorgensen's  anger  knew  no  bounds. 

"You  are  subjects  of  the  King  of  Denmark,"  he  cried. 

"Before  ever  Denmark  was,  we  were,"  answered  the  Judge, 
proudly. 

"And  in  his  name  I  demand  that  you  adjourn.  Will  you  do  it 
now?"  cried  Jorgen  Jorgensen,  with  a  grin  of  triumph. 

"No,"  cried  the  Judge,  lifting  an  undaunted  face  to  the  face  of 
Jorgen  Jorgensen. 

The  people  held  their  breath  through  this  clash  of  words,  but 
at  the  Judge's  brave  answer  a  murmur  of  approval  passed  over 
them.  Jorgen  Jorgensen  heard  it,  and  flinched,  but  turned  back  to 
the  Judge  and  said: 

"Take  care.  If  you  do  not  help  me,  you  hinder  me;  if  you  are 
not  with  me,  you  are  against  me.  Is  that  man  a  traitor?  Answer 
me — yes  or  no." 


THE   BONDMAN  283 

But  the  Judge  made  no  answer,  and  there  was  dead  silence 
among  the  people,  for  they  knew  well  in  what  way  the  cruel  ques- 
tion tended. 

"Answer  me — yes  or  no,"  Jorgen  Jorgensen  cried  again. 

Then  the  Bishop  broke  silence  and  said: 

"Whatever  our  hearts  may  be,  your  Excellency,  our  tongues 
must  be  silent." 

At  that,  Jorgen  Jorgensen  faced  about  to  the  crowd. 

"I  put  a  price  on  his  head,"  he  cried.  "Two  thousand  kroner 
lib  any  one  who  takes  him,  alive  or  dead.  Who  will  earn  it  ?" 

"No  Icelander  earns  money  with  blood,"  said  the  Bishop.  "If 
this  thing  is  our  duty,  we  will  do  it  without  pay.  If  not,  no  bribe 
will  tempt  us." 

"Ay,  ay,"  shouted  a  hundred  voices. 

Jorgen  Jorgensen  flinched  again,  and  his  face  whitened  as  he 
grew  darker  within. 

"So,  I  see  how  it  is,"  he  said,  looking  steadfastly  at  the  Bishop, 
the  Judge,  and  the  Thing-men.  "You  are  aiding  this  traitor's 
escape.  You  are  his  allies,  every  man  of  you.  And  you  are  se- 
ducing and  deceiving  the  people." 

Then  he  faced  about  toward  the  crowd  more  and  more,  and 
cried  in  a  loud  voice: 

"Men  of  Iceland,  you  know  the  man  who  has  escaped.  You 
know  what  he  is,  and  where  he  came  from;  you  know  he  is  not 
one  of  yourselves,  but  a  bastard  Englishman.  Then  drive  him 
back  home.  Listen  to  me.  What  price  did  I  put  on  his  head? 
Two  thousand  kroner !  I  will  give  ten  thousand !  Ten  thou- 
sand kroner  for  the  man  who  takes  him  alive,  and  twenty 
thousand  kroner — do  you  hear  me? — twenty  thousand  for  the  man 
who  takes  him  dead." 

"Silence !"  cried  the  Bishop.  "Who  are  you,  sir,  that  you  dare 
tempt  men  to  murder?" 

"Murder!"  cried  Jorgen  Jorgensen.  "See  how  simple  are  the 
wise  ?  Men  of  Iceland,  listen  to  me  again.  The  traitor  is  an  out- 
law. You  know  what  that  means.  His  blood  is  on  his  own  head. 
Any  man  may  shoot  him  down.  No  man  may  be  called  to  account 
for  doing  so.  Do  you  hear  me  ?  It  is  the  law  of  Iceland,  the  law 
of  Denmark,  the  law  of  the  world.  He  is  an  outlaw,  and  killing 
him  is  no  murder.  Follow  him  up!  Twenty  thousand  kroner  to 
the  man  who  lays  him  at  my  feet." 

He  would  have  said  more,  for  he  was  heaving  with  passion, 
and  his  white  face  had  grown  purple,  but  his  tongue  seemed  sud- 
denly paralyzed,  and  his  wide  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  something 


284  THE   BONDMAN 

at  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd.  One  thin  and  wrinkled  hand 
he  lifted  up  and  pointed  tremblingly  over  the  heads  of  the 
people.  ."There !"  he  said  in  a  smothered  cry,  and  after  that  he 
was  silent. 

The  crowd  shifted  and  looked  round,  amid  a  deep  murmur  of 
surprise  and  expectation.  Then  by  one  of  the  involuntary  impulses 
that  move  great  assemblies,  the  solid  wall  of  human  beings  seemed 
to  part  of  itself,  and  make  way  for  some  one. 

It  was  Red  Jason,  carrying  Michael  Sunlocks  across  his  breast 
and  shoulder.  His  bronzed  cheeks  were  worn,  his  sunken  eyes 
burned  with  a  dull  fire.  He  strode  on,  erect  and  strong,  through 
the  riven  men  and  women.  A  breathless  silence  seemed  to  fol- 
low him.  When  he  came  to  the  foot  of  the  Mount,  he  stopped,  and 
let  Sunlocks  drop  gently  to  the  ground.  Sunlocks  was  insensible, 
and  his  piteous  white  face  looked  up  at  the  heavy  dome  of  the  sky. 
A  sensation  of  awe  held  the  vast  crowd  spellbound.  It  was  as  if 
the  Almighty  God  had  heard  the  blasphemy  of  that  miserable  old 
man,  and  given  him  on  the  instant  his  impious  wish. 


Then,  in  that  breathless  silence,  Jason  stood  erect  and  said,  in 
a  firm,  clear,  sonorous  voice,  "You  know  who  I  am.  Some  of  you 
hate  me.  Some  of  you  fear  me.  All  of  you  think  me  a  sort  of  wild 
beast  among  men.  That  is  why  you  caged  me.  But  I  have  broken 
my  bars,  and  brought  this  man  along  with  me." 

The  men  on  the  Mount  had  not  time  to  breathe  under  the 
light  and  fire  that  flashed  upon  them  when  Jason  lifted  his  clenched 
hand  and  said :  "O,  you  that  dwell  in  peace ;  you  that  go  to  your 
beds  at  night;  you  that  eat  when  you  are  hungry  and  drink  when 
you  are  athirst,  and  rest  when  you  are  weary:  would  to  God  you 
could  know  by  bitter  proof  what  this  poor  man  has  suffered.  But  7 
know  it,  and  I  can  tell  you  what  it  has  been.  Where  is  your 
Michael  Sunlocks,  that  I  may  tell  it  to  him  ?  Which  is  he  ?  Point 
him  out  to  me." 

Then  the  people  drew  a -deep  breath,  for  they  saw  in  an  instant 
what  had  befallen  these  two  men  in  the  dread  shaping  of  their 
fate. 

"Where  is  he?"  cried  Jason,  again. 

And  in  a  voice  quivering  with  emotion,  the  Judge  said: 

"Don't  you  know  the  man  you've  brought  here?" 

"No — yes — yes,"  cried  Jason.  "My  brother — my  brother  in 
suffering— my  brother  in  misery— that's  all  I  know  or  care.  But 


THE   BONDMAN  285 

jvhere  is  your  Michael  Sunlocks  ?  I  have  something  to  say  to  him. 
Where  is  he?" 

Jorgen  Jorgensen  had  recovered  himself  by  this  time,  and  press- 
ing forward,  he  said  with  a  cruel  smile : 

"You  fool ;  shall  I  tell  you  where  he  is  ?" 

"Heaven  forbid  it!"  said  the  Bishop,  stepping  out  and  lifting 
both  hands  before  the  Governor's  face.  But  in  that  instant  Jason 
had  recognized  Jorgen  Jorgensen. 

"I  know  this  old  man,"  he  said.  "What  is  he  doing  here?  Ah, 
God  pity  me,  I  had  forgotten.  I  saw  him  at  the  mines.  Then  he  is 
back.  And,  now  I  remember,  he  is  Governor  again." 

Saying  this,  an  agony  of  bewilderment  quivered  in  his  face. 
He  looked  around. 

"Then  where  is  Michael  Sunlocks?"  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice. 
"Where  is  he?  Which  is  he?  Who  is  he?  Will  no  one  tell  me? 
Speak !  For  the  merciful  Christ's  sake  let  some  one  speak." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  in  which  the  vast  crowd  trem- 
bled as  one  man  with  wonder  and  dismay.  The  Bishop  and  Judge 
stood  motionless.  Jorgen  Jorgensen  smiled  bitterly  and  shook  his 
head,  and  Jason  raised  his  right  hand  to  cover  his  face  from  the 
face  of  the  insensible  man  at  his  feet,  as  if  some  dark  foreshadow- 
ing of  the  truth  had  swept  over  him  in  an  instant. 

What  happened  thereafter  Jason  never  knew,  only  that  there 
was  a  shrill  cry  and  a  rustle  like  a  swirl  of  wind,  only  that  some 
one  was  coming  up  behind  him  through  the  walls  of  human  beings, 
that  still  stood  apart  like  riven  rocks,  only  that  in  a  moment  a 
woman  had  flung  herself  over  the  prostrate  body  of  his  comrade, 
embracing  it,  raising  it  in  her  arms,  kissing  its  pale  cheeks,  and 
sobbing  over  it,  "My  husband !  my  husband." 

It  was  Greeba.  When  the  dark  mist  had  cleared  away  from 
before  his  eyes,  Jason  saw  her  and  knew  her.  At  the  same  in- 
stant he  saw  and  knew  his  destiny,  that  his  yoke-fellow  had  been 
Michael  Sunlocks,  that  his  lifelong  enemy  had  been  his  life's  sole 
friend. 

It  was  a  terrible  discovery,  and  Jason  reeled  under  the  shock 
of  it  like  a  beast  that  is  smitten  to  its  death.  And  while  he  stood 
there,  half-blind,  half-deaf,  swaying  to  and  fro  as  if  the  earth 
rocked  beneath  him,  across  his  shoulders,  over  his  cheeks  and  his 
mouth  and  his  eyes  fell  the  lash  of  the  tongue  of  Jorgen  Jorgensen. 

"Yes,  fool  that  you  are  and  have  been,"  he  cried  in  his  husky 
voice,  "that's  where  your  Michael  Sunlocks  is." 

"Shame!     Shame!"  cried  the  people. 

But  Jorgen  Jorgensen  showed  no  pity  or  ruth. 


286  THE   BONDMAN 

"You  have  brought  him  here  to  your  confusion,"  he  cried  again, 
"and  it's  not  the  first  time  you've  taken  his  part  to  your  own  loss." 

More  he  would  have  said  in  the  merciless  cruelty  of  his  heart, 
only  that  a  deep  growl  came  up  from  the  crowd  and  silenced 
him. 

But  Jason  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing,  felt  nothing,  knew  noth- 
ing, save  that  Michael  Sunlocks  lay  at  his  feet,  that  Greeba  knelt 
beside  him,  and  that  she  was  coaxing  him,  caressing  him,  and  kiss- 
ing him  back  to  life. 

"Michael,"  she  whispered,  "Michael !  My  poor  Michael !"  she 
murmured,  while  she  moistened  his  lips  and  parched  tongue  with 
the  brenni-vin  from  the  horn  of  some  good  man  standing  near. 

Jason  saw  this  and  heard  this,  though  he  had  eyes  and  ears  for 
nothing  besides.  And  thinking,  in  the  wild  tumult  of  his  distem- 
pered brain,  that  such  tenderness  might  have  been  his,  should  have 
been  his,  must  have  been  his,  but  for  this  man  who  had  robbed  him 
of  this  woman,  all  the  bitterness  of  his  poisoned  heart  rose  up  to 
choke  him. 

He  remembered  his  weary  life  with  this  man,  his  sufferings 
with  him,  his  love  for  him,  and  he  hated  himself  for  it  all.  What 
devil  of  hell  had  made  sport  of  him,  to  give  him  his  enemy  for  his 
friend?  How  Satan  himself  must  shriek  aloud  to  see  it,  that  he 
who  had  been  thrice  robbed  by  this  man — robbed  of  a  father,  robbed 
of  a  mother,  robbed  of  a  wife — should  in  his  blindness  tend  him, 
and  nurse  him,  and  carry  him  with  sweat  of  blood  over  trackless 
wastes  that  he  might  save  him  alive  for  her  who  waited  to  claim 
him! 

Then  he  remembered  what  he  had  come  for,  and  that  all  was 
not  yet  done.  Should  he  do  it  after  all  ?  Should  he  give  this  man 
back  to  this  woman?  Should  he  renounce  his  love  and  his  hate 
together — his  love  of  this  woman,  his  hate  of  this  man?  Love? 
Hate?  Which  was. love?  Which  was  hate?  Ah,  God!  They 
were  one;  they  were  the  same.  Heaven  pity  him,  what  was  he 
to  do? 

Thus  the  powers  of  good  and  the  powers  of  evil  wrestled  to- 
gether in  Jason's  heart  for  mastery.  But  the  moment  of  their 
struggle  was  short.  One  look  at  the  piteous  blind  face  lying  on 
Greeba's  bosom,  one  glance  at  the  more  piteous  wet  face  that  hung 
over  it,  and  love  had  conquered  hate  in  that  big  heart  forever  and 
forever. 

Jason  was  recalled  to  himself  by  a  dull  hum  of  words  that 
seemed  to  be  spoken  from  the  Mount.  Some  one  was  asking  why 
he  had  come  there,  and  brought  Michael  Sunlocks  along  with  him. 


THE   BONDMAN  287 

So  he  lifted  his  hand,  partly  to  call  attention,  partly  to  steady  him- 
self, and  in  a  broken  voice  he  said  these  words : 

"Men  and  women,  if  you  could  only  know  what  it  means  that 
you  have  just  witnessed,  I  think  it  would  be  enough  to  move  any 
men.  You  know  what  I  am — a  sort  of  bastard  who  has  never  been 
a  man  among  men,  but  has  walked  alone  all  the  days  of  his  life. 
My  father  killed  my  mother,  and  so  I  vowed  to  kill  my  father.  I 
did  not  do  it,  for  I  saved  him  out  of  the  sea,  and  he  died  in  my 
arms,  as  you  might  say,  doting  on  the  memory  of  another  son. 
That  son's  mother  had  supplanted  my  mother  and  that  son  himself 
had  supplanted  me,  so  I  vowed  to  kill  him  for  his  father's  sake.  I 
did  not  do  that  either.  I  had  never  once  set  eyes  on  my  enemy, 
I  had  done  nothing  but  say  what  I  meant  to  do,  when  you  took  me 
and  tried  me  and  condemned  me.  Perhaps  that  was  injustice,  such 
as  could  have  been  met  with  nowhere  save  here  in  Iceland,  yet  I 
thank  God  for  it  now.  By  what  chance  I  do  not  know,  but  in  that 
hell  to  which  you  sent  me,  where  all  names  are  lost  and  no  man 
may  know  his  yoke-fellow,  except  by  his  face  if  he  has  seen  it,  I 
met  with  one  who  became  my  friend,  my  brother,  my  second  self. 
I  loved  him,  as  one  might  love  a  little  child.  And  he  loved  me — 
yes,  me — I  could  swear  it.  You  had  thought  me  a  beast,  and  shut 
me  out  from  the  light  of  day  and  the  company  of  Christian  men. 
But  he  made  me  a  man,  and  lighted  up  the  darkness  of  my 
night." 

His  deep  strong  voice  faltered,  and  he  stopped,  and  nothing 
was  audible  save  the  excited  breathing  of  the  people.  Greeba  was 
looking  up  into  his  haggard  face  with  amazement  written  upon  her 
own. 

"Must  I  go  on  ?"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  rent  with  agony.  "I  have 
brought  him  here,  and  he  is  Michael  Sunlocks.  My  brother  in  suf- 
fering is  my  brother  in  blood.  The  man  I  have  vowed  to  slay  is 
the  man  I  have  tried  to  save." 

Some  of  the  people  could  not  restrain  their  tears,  and  the  white 
faces  of  the  others  quivered  visibly. 

"Why  have  you  brought  him  here  ?"  asked  the  Judge. 

At  that  moment  Michael  Sunlocks  began  to  move  and  to  moan, 
as  if  consciousness  were  coming  back  to  him.  Jorgen  Jorgensen 
saw  this,  and  the  proud  composure  with  which  he  had  looked  on 
and  listened  while  Sunlocks  lay  like  a  man  dead  left  him  in  an 
instant. 

"Why  have  you  brought  Michael  Sunlocks  here?"  said  the 
Judge  again. 

"Why  has  he  brought  him  here?"  said  Jorgen  Jorgensen  bit- 


288  THE   BONDMAN 

terly.  "To  be  arrested.  That's  why  he  has  brought  him  here.  See, 
the  man  is  coming  to.  He  will  do  more  mischief  yet,  unless  he  is 
prevented.  Take  him,"  he  shouted  to  two  of  the  guards  from 
Krisuvik,  who  had  come  with  Greeba,  and  now  stood  behind  her. 

"Wait !"  cried  the  Judge,  lifting  his  hand. 

There  was  no  gainsaying  his  voice,  and  the  guards  who  had 
stepped  forward  dropped  back. 

Then  he  turned  to  Jason  again  and  repeated  his  question,  "Why 
have  you  brought  Michael  Sunlocks  here  ?" 

At  that,  Jorgen  Jorgensen  lost  all  self-control  and  shouted, 
"Take  him,  I  say !"  And  facing  about  to  the  Judge  he  said,  "I 
will  have  you  know,  sir,  that  I  am  here  for  Denmark  and  must  be 
obeyed." 

The  guards  stepped  forward  again,  but  the  crowd  closed  around 
them  and  pushed  them  back. 

Seeing  this,  Jorgen  Jorgensen  grew  purple  with  rage,  and  turn- 
ing to  the  people,  he  shouted  at  the  full  pitch  of  his  voice,  "Listen 
to  me.  Some  minutes  past,  I  put  a  price  on  that  man's  head.  I 
said  I  would  give  you  twenty  thousand  kroner.  I  was  wrong.  I 
will  give  you  nothing  but  your  lives  and  liberty.  You  know  what 
that  means.  You  have  bent  your  necks  under  the  yoke  already,  and 
you  may  have  to  do  it  again.  Arrest  that  man — arrest  both  men !" 

"Stop !"  cried  the  Judge. 

"Those  men  are  escaped  prisoners,"  said  Jorgen  Jorgensen. 

"And  this  is  the  Mount  of  Laws,  and  here  is  the  Althing,"  said 
the  Judge ;  "and  prisoners  or  no  prisoners,  if  they  have  anything  to 
say,  by  the  ancient  law  of  Iceland  they  may  say  it  now." 

"Pshaw !  your  law  of  Iceland  is  nothing  to  me,"  said  Jorgen 
Jorgensen,  and  turning  to  the  crowd  he  cried,  "In  the  name  of  the 
King  of  Denmark  I  command  you  to  arrest  those  men." 

"And  in  the  name  of  the  King  of  Kings,"  said  the  Judge,  turn- 
ing after  him,  "I  command  you  to  let  them  alone." 

There  was  a  dead  hush  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  Judge  looked 
down  at  Jason  and  said  once  more.  "Why  have  you  brought  Michael 
Sunlocks  here?  Speak!" 

But  before  Jason  could  make  answer,  Jorgen  Jorgensen  had 
broken  in  again : 

"My  guards  are  at  Reykjavik,"  he  cried,  "and  I  am  here  alone. 
You  are  traitors,  all  of  you,  and  if  there  is  no  one  else  to  arrest 
that  enemy  of  my  country  I  will  do  it  myself.  He  shall  go  no 
further.  Step  back  from  him." 

So  saying,  he  opened  his  cloak,  drew  a  pistol  from  his  belt  and 
cocked  it  A  shrill  cry  arose  from  the  crowd.  The  men  on  the 


THE   BONDMAN  289 

Mount  stood  quaking  with  fear,  and  Greeba  flung  herself  over  the 
restless  body  of  Michael  Sunlocks.  ' 

But  Jason  did  not  move  a  feature. 

"Old  man,"  he  said,  looking  up  with  eyes  as  steadfast  as  the 
sun  into  Jorgensen's  face,  and  pointing  toward  Sunlocks,  "if  you 
touch  one  hair  of  this  head,  these  hands  will  tear  you  to  pieces." 

Then  one  of  the  men  who  had  stood  near,  a  rough  fellow  with 
a  big  tear-drop  rolling  down  his  tanned  cheeks,  stepped  up  to 
Jason's  side,  and  without  speaking  a  word  offered  him  his  musket; 
but  Jason  calmly  pushed  it  back.  There  was  dead  silence  once 
more.  Jorgen  Jorgensen's  uplifted  hand  fell  to  his  side,  and  he 
was  speechless. 

"Speak  now,"  said  the  Judge.  "Why  have  you  brought  Michael 
Sunlocks  here?" 

Jason  stood  silent  for  a  moment  as  if  to  brace  himself  up,  and 
then  he  said,  "I  have  laid  my  soul  bare  to  your  gaze  already,  and 
you  know  what  I  am  and  where  I  come  from." 

A  low  moan  seemed  to  echo  him. 

"But  I,  too,  am  an  Icelander,  and  this  is  our  ancient  Mount  of 
Laws,  the  sacred  ground  of  our  fathers  and  our  fathers'  fathers  for 
a  thousand  years." 

A  deep  murmur  rose  from  the  vast  company. 

"And  I  have  heard  that  if  any  one  is  wronged  and  oppressed 
and  unjustly  punished,  let  him  but  find  his  way  to  this  place,  and 
though  he  be  the  meanest  slave  that  wipes  his  forehead,  yet  he 
will  be  a  man  among  you  all." 

There  were  loud  cries  of  assent. 

"I  have  also  heard  that  this  Mount,  on  this  day,  is  as  the  gate 
of  the  city  in  old  time,  when  the  judges  sat  to  judge  the  people; 
and  that  he  who  is  permitted  to  set  foot  on  it,  and  cross  it,  though 
he  were  as  guilty  as  the  outlaws  that  hide  in  the  desert,  is  inno- 
cent and  free  forever  after.  Answer  me — is  it  true  ?  Yes  or  no  ?" 

"Yes !  yes !"  came  from  a  thousand  throats. 

"Then,  judges  of  Iceland,  fellow-men,  and  brothers,  do  you  ask 
why  I  have  brought  this  man  to  this  place  ?  Look  at  this  bleeding 
hand."  He  lifted  the  right  hand  of  Sunlocks.  "It  has  been  pierced 
with  a  nail."  A  deep  groan  came  from  the  people.  He  let  the  hand 
fall  back.  "Look  at  these  poor  eyes.  They  are  blind.  Do  you 
know  what  that  means?  It  means  hellish  barbarity  and  damned 
tyranny." 

His  voice  swelled  until  it  seemed  to  shake  the  very  ground  on 
which  he  stood.  "What  this  man's  crime  may  be  I  do  not  know, 
and  I  do  not  care.  Let  it  be  what  it  will,  let  the  man  be  what  he 
13  Vol.  II. 


290  THE   BONDMAN 

may — a  xelon  like  myself,  a  malefactor,  a  miscreant,  a  monster — 
yet  what  crime  and  what  condition  deserves  punishment  that  is 
worse  than  death  and  hell  ?" 

"None,  none,"  shouted  a  thousand  voices. 

"Then,  judges  of  Iceland,  fellow-men,  and  brothers,  I  call  on 
you  to  save  this  man  from  that  doom.  Save  him  for  his  sake — • 
save  him  for  your  own,  for  He  that  dwells  above  is  looking  down 
on  you." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  cried,  "Listen !" 

There  was  a  low  rumble  as  of  thunder.  It  came  not  from  the 
clouds,  but  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  The  people  turned  pallid 
with  dismay,  but  Jason's  face  was  lighted  up  with  a  wild  frenzy. 

"Do  you  hear  it?  It  is  the  voice  that  was  heard  when  these 
old  hills  were  formed,  and  the  valleys  ran  like  fire.  It  is  the  voice 
of  the  Almighty  God  calling  on  you." 

The  word  was  like  a  war  cry.  The  people  answered  it  with  a 
shout.  And  still  Jason's  voice  pealed  over  their  heads. 

"Vengeance  is  God's,  but  mercy  belongs  to  man." 

He  stooped  to  Michael  Sunlocks,  where  Greeba  held  him  at  her 
bosom,  picked  him  up  in  his  arms  as  if  he  had  been  a  child,  turned 
his  face  toward  the  Mount  and  cried,  "Let  me  pass." 

Then  at  one  impulse,  in  one  instant,  the  Judge  and  the  Bishop 
parted  and  made  a  way,  and  Jason,  carrying  Sunlocks,  strode  up  the 
causeway  and  swept  through. 

There  was  but  one  voice  then  in  all  that  great  assembly,  and 
it  was  a  mighty  shout  that  seemed  to  rend  the  dome  of  the  heavy 
sky.  "Free  !  Free !  Free !" 


But  the  end  was  not  yet.  More,  and  more  terrible,  is  to  follow, 
though  the  spirit  is  not  fain  to  tell  of  it,  and  the  hand  that  sets  it 
down  is  trembling.  Let  him  who  thinks  that  this  world  of  time  is 
founded  in  justice  wait  long  and  watch  patiently,  for  up  to  the 
eleventh  hour  he  may  see  the  good  man  sit  in  misery,  and  the  evil 
man  carried  in  honor.  And  let  him  who  thinks  that  Nature  is 
sweet  and  benignant  and  that  she  leaps  to  the  aid  of  the  just,  learn 
from  what  is  to  come  that  she  is  all  things  to  all  men  and  nothing 
to  any  man. 

Now  when  Jason  had  crossed  the  Mount  of  Laws  with  Sun- 
locks,  thinking  that  by  virtue  of  old  custom  he  had  thereby  set  him 
free  of  tyranny,  Jorgen  Jorgensen  did  what  a  man  of  shallow  soul 
must  always  do  when  he  sees  the  outward  signs  of  the  holy  things 


THE   BONDMAN  291 

that  move  the  deeper  souls  of  other  men.  He  smiled  with  bitterness 
and  laughed  with  contempt. 

"A  pretty  thing,  truly,"  he  sneered,  "out  of  some  forgotten  age 
of  musty  laws  and  old  barbarians.  But  there  is  something  else 
that  is  forgotten.  It  is  forgotten  that  between  these  two  men, 
Jason  and  Michael  Sunlocks,  there  is  this  difference,  that  the  one 
is  a  prisoner  of  Iceland,  and  the  other  of  Denmark.  Jason  is  a 
prisoner  of  Iceland,  a  felon  of  Iceland,  therefore  Iceland  may 
pardon  him,  and  if  this  brave  mummery  has  made  him  free,  then 
so  be  it,  and  God  pity  you!  But  Michael  Sunlocks  is  a  prisoner 
of  Denmark,  a  traitor  against  the  crown  of  Denmark,  therefore 
Denmark  alone  may  pardon  him — and  he  is  still  unpardoned." 

The  clamorous  crowd  that  had  gathered  about  Michael  Sun- 
locks  looked  up  in  silence  and  bewilderment  at  this  fresh  blow. 
And  Jorgen  Jorgensen  saw  his  advantage  and  went  on. 

"Ask  your  Lagmann  and  let  him  answer  you.  Is  it  as  I  say  or 
is  it  not?  Ask  him." 

The  people  looked  from  face  to  face  of  the  men  on  the  Mount, 
from  Jorgen  Jorgensen  to  the  Judge  and  from  the  Judge  to  the 
Bishop. 

"Is  this  true?"  shouted  a  voice  from  the  crowd. 

But  the  Judge  made  no  answer,  and  the  Bishop  said,  "Why  all 
this  wrangling  over  the  body  of  a  dying  man?" 

"Dying  indeed !"  said  Jorgen  Jorgensen,  and  he  laughed.  "Look 
at  him."  Michael  Sunlocks,  again  lying  in  the  arms  of  Greeba,  was 
showing  signs  of  life.  "He  will  recover  fast  enough  when  all  is 
over." 

"Is  it  true?"  shouted  the  same  voice  from  the  crowd. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Judge. 

Then  the  look  of  bewilderment  in  the  faces  of  the  people  deep- 
ened to  consternation.  At  that  moment  Michael  Sunlocks  was 
raised  to  his  feet.  And  Jorgen  Jorgensen,  standing  like  an  old 
snuffy  tiger  on  the  watch,  laughed  again,  and  turning  to  Jason  he 
pointed  at  Sunlocks  and  said,  "What  did  I  say?  A  pretty  farce 
truly,  this  pretense  at  unconsciousness.  Small  good  it  has  done 
him.  And  he  has  little  to  thank  you  for.  You  have  brought  him 
here  to  his  death." 

What  answer  Jason  would  have  made  him,  no  man  may  say, 
for  at  that  moment  the  same  terrestrial  thunder  that  had  been 
heard  before  was  heard  again,  and  the  earth  became  violently  agi- 
tated as  with  a  deep  pulsation.  The  people  looked  into  each  other's 
faces  with  dismay,  and  scarcely  had  they  realized  the  horror  that 
waited  to  pour  out  on  the  world,  when  a  man  came  galloping  from 


292  THE   BONDMAN 

the  south  and  crying,  "The  mountains  are  coming  down  at  Skaptar. 
Fly!  fly!" 

They  stopped  the  man  and  questioned  him,  and  he  answered, 
with  terror  in  his  eyes,  that  the  ice-mountain  itself  was  sweeping 
down  into  the  plain.  Then  he  put  his  heels  to  his  horse  and  broke 
away. 

Hardly  had  the  people  heard  this  dread  word  when  another 
man  came  galloping  from  the  southwest,  and  crying,  "The  sea  is 
throwing  up  new  islands  at  Reykianess,  and  all  the  rivers  are 
dry." 

They  stopped  this  man  also,  and  questioned  him,  and  he  an- 
swered that  the  sky  at  the  coast  was  raining  red-hot  stones,  so 
that  the  sea  hissed  with  them,  and  all  the  land  was  afire.  Then 
he,  too,  put  his  heels  to  his  horse  and  broke  away. 

Scarcely  had  he  gone,  when  a  third  man  came  galloping  from 
the  southeast,  and  crying,  "The  land  around  Hekla  is  washed  away, 
and  not  a  green  place  is  left  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

This  man  also  they  stopped  and  questioned,  and  he  answered 
that  a  torrent  of  boiling  water  was  rolling  down  from  the  Kotlugia 
jokull,  hurling  ice-blocks  before  it,  and  sweeping  farms,  churches, 
cattle,  horses,  and  men,  women,  and  children  into  the  sea.  Then 
this  man  also  put  his  heels  to  his  horse  and  broke  away,  like  one 
pursued  by  death  itself. 

For  some  moments  thereafter  the  people  stood  where  the  men 
had  left  them,  silent,  helpless,  unable  to  think  or  feel.  Then  there 
rose  from  them  all,  as  from  one  man,  such  a  shriek  of  mortal  agony 
as  never  before  came  from  human  breasts.  In  their  terror  they 
ran  hither  and  thither,  without  thought  or  intention.  They  took 
to  their  tents,  they  took  to  their  ponies,  they  galloped  north,  they 
galloped  south,  they  galloped  east,  they  galloped  west,  and  then 
came  scurrying  back  to  the  Mount  from  which  they  had  started.  A 
great  danger  was  about  to  burst  upon  them,  but  they  could  not  tell 
from  what  direction  it  would  come.  Some  remembered  their  homes 
and  the  wives  and  children  they  had  left  there.  Others  thought 
only  of  themselves  and  of  the  fire  and  water  that  were  dealing  out 
'death. 

In  two  minutes  th'e  Mount  was  a  barren  waste,  the  fissures  on 
its  sides  were  empty,  and  the  seats  on  the  crags  were  bare.  The 
Thing-men  and  the  clergy  were  rushing  to  and  fro  in  the  throng, 
and  the  old  Bishop  and  the  Judge  were  seeking  their  horses. 

Greeba  stood,  with  fear  on  her  face,  by  the  side  of  Michael 
Sunlocks,  who,  blind  and  maimed,  unable  to  see  what  was  going 
on  about  him,  not  knowing  yet  where  he  was  and  what  new  evil 


THE   BONDMAN  293 

threatened  him,  looked  like  a  man  who  might  have  been  dead  and 
was  awakening-  to  consciousness  in  a  world  of  the  damned. 

Two  men,  and  two  only,  of  all  that  vast  multitude,  kept  their 
heads  and  were  cool  through  this  mad  panic.  One  of  these  was 
Jorgen  Jorgensen ;  the  other  was  Red  Jason.  They  watched  each 
other  constantly,  the  one  with  the  eyes  of  the  lynx,  the  other  with 
the  eyes  of  a  lion. 

A  troop  of  men  came  riding  through  the  throng  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Chasm  of  Ravens.  Twenty  of  them  were  the  body- 
guard of  the  Governor,  and  they  pushed  their  way  to  the  feet  of 
Jorgen  Jorgensen. 

"Your  Excellency,"  said  one  of  them,  "we  had  news  of  you  that 
you  would  want  us;  so  we  made  bold  to  come." 

"You  have  come  in  time,"  said  Jorgen  Jorgensen,  and  his  cruel 
eyes  flashed  with  the  light  of  triumph. 

"There  has  been  a  great  eruption  of  Skaptar,"  said  the  man, 
"and  the  people  of  the  south  are  flocking  into  Reykjavik." 

"Leave  old  Skaptar  to  take  care  of  itself,"  said  Jorgen  Jorgen- 
sen, "and  do  you  take  charge  of  that  man  there,  and  the  woman 
beside  him." 

So  saying,  he  pointed  toward  Michael  Sunlocks,  who,  amid 
the  whirl  of  the  crowd  around,  had  stood  still  in  his  helpless 
blindness. 

Jason  saw  and  heard  all,  and  he  shouted  to  the  people  to  come 
to  his  help,  for  he  was  one  man  against  twenty.  But  the  people 
paid  no  heed  to  his  calling,  for  every  man  was  thinking  of  himself. 
Then  Jason  fell  on  the  guards  with  his  bare  hands  only.  And  his 
mighty  muscles  would  have  made  havoc  of  many  of  them,  but  that 
Jorgen  Jorgensen  drew  his  pistol  again  and  fired  at  him,  and 
wounded  him.  Jason  knew  nothing  of  his  injury  until  his  right 
arm  fell  to  his  side,  bleeding  and  useless.  After  that,  he  was  seized 
from  behind  and  from  before,  and  held  to  the  ground  while  Michael 
Sunlocks  and  Greeba  were  hurried  away. 

Then  the  air  began  to  be  filled  with  smoke,  a  wind  that  was 
like  a  solid  wall  of  black  sand  swept  up  from  the  south,  and  sudden 
darkness  covered  everything. 

"It  is  the  lava !"  shouted  one. 

"It's  the  fiery  flood !"  shouted  another. 

"It's  the  end  of  the  world !"  shouted  a  third. 

And  at  one  impulse  the  people  rushed  hither,  thither — north, 
south,  east,  west — some  weeping,  some  shrieking,  some  swearing, 
some  laughing  like  demons — all  wild  with  frenzy  and  mad  with 
terror. 


294 


THE   BONDMAN 


Torgen  Jorgensen  found  'his  little  piebald  pony  where  he  had 
left'it,  for  the  docile  beast,  with  the  reins  over  its  head,  was  munch- 
ing the  grass  at  the  foot  of  the  causeway.  He  mounted,  and  rode 
past  Jason  as  the  men  were  loosening  their  hold  of  him,  and  peer- 
ing into  his  face  he  said  with  a  sneer,  "If  this  is  the  end  of  the 
.world,  as  they  say,  make  the  best  of  what  is  left  of  it,  and  fly." 

With  that,  he  thrust  spurs  into  his  horse's  sides,  and  went  off 
at  utmost  speed. 

Then  Jason  was  alone  on  the  plain.  Not  another  human  soul 
was  left.  The  crowd  was  gone;  the  Mount  of  Laws  was  silent, 
and  a  flock  of  young  sheep  ran  past  it  bleating.  Over  the  moun- 
tains to  the  south  a  red  glow  burned  along  the  black  sky,  and  lurid 
flames  shot  through  it. 

Such  was  the  beginning  of  the  eruption  of  Skaptar.  And  Jason 
staggered  along  in  the  day-darkness,  alone,  abandoned,  shouting 
like  a  maniac,  swearing  like  a  man  accursed,  crying  out  to  the  deso- 
late waste  and  the  black  wind  sweeping  over  it,  that  if  this  were 
the  end  of  the  world,  he  had  a  question  to  ask  of  Him  who  made  it : 
Why  He  had  broken  His  word,  which  said  that  the  wages  of  sin 
was  death — why  the  avenger  that  was  promised  had  not  come  to 
smite  down  the  wicked  and  save  the  just? 


In  this  valley  of  the  Loberg  there  is  a  long  peninsula  of  rock 
stretching  between  the  western  bank  of  the  lake  and  the  river  called 
the  Oxara.  It  begins  in  a  narrow  neck  where  is  a  pass  for  one 
horse  only,  and  ends  in  a  deep  pool  over  a  jagged  precipice,  with 
a  mighty  gorge  of  water  falling  from  the  opposite  ravine.  It  is 
said  that  this  awful  place  was  used  in  ancient  days  for  the  execution 
of  women  who  had  killed  their  children,  and  of  men  who  had  robbed 
the  widow  and  the  orphan. 

Near  the  narrowest  part  of  the  peninsula  a  man  was  plunging 
along  in  the  darkness,  trusting  solely  to  the  sight  of  his  pony,  for 
his  own  eyes  could  see  nothing.  Two  long  hours  he  had  been 
groping  his  way  from  the  Mount  of  Laws,  and  he  was  still  within 
one  short  mile  of  it.  But  at  last  he  saw  help  at  hand  in  his  ex- 
tremity, for  a  man  on  foot  approached  him  out  of  the  gloom.  He 
took  him  for  a  farmer  of  those  parts,  and  hailed  him  with  hearty 
cheer. 

"Good  man,"  he  said,  "put  me  on  the  right  path  for  Reykjavik, 
and  you  shall  have  five  kroner,  and  welcome." 

But  scarcely  had  he  spoken  when  he  recognized  the  man  he  had 


THE   BONDMAN  295 

met,  and  the  man  recognized  him.  The  one  was  Jason,  and  the 
other  Jorgen  Jorgensen. 

Jorgen  Jorgensen  thought  his  hour  had  come,  for,  putting  his 
hand  to  his  weapon,  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  reloaded  it 
since  he  had  shot  at  Jason,  and  so  he  flung  it  away.  But  the  old 
tiger  was  not  to  be  subdued.  "Come,"  he  said,  out  of  the  black 
depths  of  his  heart,  "let  us  have  done.  What  is  it  to  be  ?" 

Then  Jason  stepped  back,  and  said:  "That  is  the  way  to  Rey- 
kjavik— over  the  stream  and  through  the  first  chasm  on  the  left." 

At  this,  Jorgen  Jorgensen  seemed  to  catch  his  breath.  He  tried 
to  speak  and  could  not. 

"No,"  said  Jason.  "It  may  be  weakness,  it  may  be  folly,  it  may 
be  madness,  but  you  were  my  mother's  father,  God  pity  her  and 
forgive  you,  and  not  even  at  the  price  of  my  brother's  life  will  I 
have  your  blood  on  my  hands.  Go !" 

Jorgen  Jorgensen  touched  his  horse  and  rode  on,  with  his  gray, 
dishonored  head  deep  in  his  breast.  And,  evil  man  as  he  was, 
surely  his  cold  heart  was  smitten  with  shame. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE     GOSPEL     OF     LOVE 

No  Althing  was  held  in  Iceland  in  that  year  of  the  great  erup- 
tion of  Skaptar.  The  dread  visitation  lasted  six  long  months,  from 
the  end  of  June  to  the  beginning  of  January  of  the  year  following. 
During  that  time  the  people  of  the  south  and  southeast,  who  had 
been  made  homeless  and  penniless,  were  constantly  trooping  into 
Reykjavik  in  hundreds  and  tens  of  hundreds.  The  population  of 
the  capital  rose  from  less  than  two  thousand  to  more  than  twenty 
thousand.  Where  so  many  were  housed  no  man  ever  knew,  and  how 
they  lived  none  can  say.  Every  hut,  every  hovel,  every  hole  was 
full  of  human  beings.  Men,  women,  and  children  crawled  like 
vermin  in  every  quarter.  For  food,  they  had  what  fish  came  out 
of  the  sea,  and  when  the  frost  covered  the  fiord  a  foot  deep  with 
ice,  they  starved  on  fish  bones  and  moss  and  seaweed. 

By  this  time  a  cry  for  help  had  gone  up  throughout  Europe,  and 
Denmark  and  England  had  each  sent  a  shipload  of  provisions,  corn 
and  meal  and  potatoes.  The  relief  came  late,  the  ships  were  caught 
in  the  ice,  and  held  ice-bound  a  long  month  off  Reykianess,  and 
.when  at  length  the  food  for  which  the  people  famished  was  brought 


296  THE   BONDMAN" 

into  Reykjavik  harbor,  the  potatoes  were  like  slabs  of  leather  and 
the  corn  and  meal  like  blocks  of  stone. 

But  even  in  this  land  of  fire  and  frost,  the  Universal  Mother  is 
good  to  her  children,  and  the  people  lived  through  their  distresses. 
By  the  end  of  February  they  were  trooping  back  to  the  scenes 
of  their  former  homes,  for,  desolate  as  those  places  were,  they 
loved  them  and  clung  to  them  still. 

In  the  days  of  this  awful  calamity  there  were  few  that  remem- 
bered Michael  Sunlocks.  Jorgen  Jorgensen  might  have  had  his 
will  of  him  then,  and  scarce  anybody  the  wiser.  That  he  held  his 
hand  was  due  first  to  fear  and  then  to  contempt;  fear  of  Copen- 
hagen, contempt  of  the  man  who  had  lost  his  influence  over  the  peo- 
ple of  Iceland.  He  was  wrong  on  both  counts.  Copenhagen  cared 
nothing  for  the  life  of  Michael  Sunlocks,  and  laughed  at  the  revolu- 
tion whereof  he  had  been  the  head  and  centre.  But  when  the  peo- 
ple of  Iceland  recovered  from  the  deadly  visitation,  their  hearts 
turned  back  to  the  man  who  had  suffered  for  their  sakes. 
*  Then  it  appeared  that  through  these  weary  months  Michael 
Sunlocks  had  been  lying  in  the  little  house  of  detention  at  Reykja- 
vik, with  no  man  save  one  man,  and  that  was  old  Adam  Fair- 
brother,  to  raise  a  voice  on  his  behalf,  and  no  woman  save  one 
woman,  and  that  was  Greeba,  to  cling  to  him  in  his  extremity. 
Neither  of  these  had  been  allowed  to  come  near  to  him,  but  both 
had  been  with  him  always.  Again  and  again  old  Adam  had 
forced  his  way  to  the  Governor,  and  protested  that  Michael  Sun- 
locks  was  not  being  treated  as  a  prisoner,  but  as  a  condemned 
criminal  and  galley-slave;  and  again  and  again  Greeba  had  come 
and  gone  between  her  lodgings  at  the  house  of  the  Bishop  and  her 
heart's  home  at  the  prison,  with  food  and  drink  for  him  who  lay  in 
darkness  and  solitude.  Little  he  knew  to  whom  he  was  thus  be- 
holden, for  she  took  pains  to  keep  her  secret,  but  all  Reykjavik  saw 
what  she  was  doing.  And  the  heart  of  Reykjavik  was  touched 
when  she  brought  her  child  from  Krisuvik,  thinking  no  shame  of 
her  altered  state,  content  to  exist  in  simple  poverty  where  she  had 
once  lived  in  wealth,  if  so  be  that  she  might  but  touch  the  walls  that 
contained  her  husband. 

Seeing  how  the  sympathy  was  going,  Jorgen  Jorgensen  set  him- 
self to  consider  what  step  to  take,  and  finally  concluded  to  remove 
Michael  Sunlocks  as  far  as  possible  from  the  place  where  his 
power  was  still  great,  and  his  temptation  to  use  it  was  powerful. 
The  remotest  spot  under  his  rule  was  Grimsey,  an  island  lying  on 
the  Arctic  circle,  thirty-five  miles  from  the  mainland.  It  was  small, 
it  was  sparsely  populated,  its  inhabitants  were  fishermen  with  no 


THE   BONDMAN  297 

craft  but  open  rowboats;  it  had  no  trade;  no  vessels  touched  at  it, 
and  the  sea  that  separated  it  from  Iceland  was  frozen  during  many 
months  of  the  year.  And  to  this  Island  Jorgensen  decided  that 
Michael  Sunlocks  should  go. 

When  the  word  was  brought  to  Michael  Sunlocks,  he  asked 
what  he  was  expected  to  do  on  that  little  rock  at  the  end  of  the 
world,  and  said  that  Grimsey  would  be  his  sentence  of  death. 

"I  prefer  to  die,  for  I  have  no  great  reason  to  wish  for  life," 
he  said ;  "but  if  I  must  live,  let  me  live  here.  I  am  blind,  I  do  not 
know  the  darkness  of  this  place,  and  all  I  ask  of  you  is  air  and 
water." 

Old  Adam,  too,  protested  loudly,  whereupon  Jorgen  Jorgensen 
answered  with  a  smile  that  he  had  supposed  that  all  he  intended  to 
do  was  for  the  benefit  of  the  prisoner  himself,  who  would  surely 
prefer  a  whole  island  to  live  upon  to  being  confined  in  a  cell  at 
Reykj  avik. 

"He  will  there  have  liberty  to  move  about,"  said  Jorgen,  "and 
he  will  live  under  the  protection  of  the  Danish  laws." 

"Then  that  will  be  more  than  he  has  done  here,"  said  Adam, 
boldly,  "where  he  has  existed  at  the  caprice  of  a  Danish  tyrant." 

The  people  of  Reykjavik  heard  of  the  banishment  with  surprise 
and  anger,  but  nothing  availed  to  prevent  it.  When  the  appointed 
day  came,  Michael  Sunlocks  was  marched  out  of  his  prison  and 
taken  off  toward  the  Bursting-sand  desert  between  a  line  of  guards. 
There  was  a  great  throng  to  bid  adieu  to  him,  and  to  groan  at  the 
power  that  sent  him.  His  face  was  pale,  but  his  bodily  strength 
was  good.  His  step  was  firm  and  steady,  and  gave  hardly  a  hint 
of  his  blindness.  His  farewell  of  those  who  crowded  upon  him  was 
simple  and  manly. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  "and  though  with  my  eyes  I  can  not  see 
you,  I  can  see  you^with  my  heart,  and  that  is  the  better  sight 
whereof  death  alone  can  rob  me.  No  doubt  you  have  much  to 
forgive  to  me ;  so  forgive  it  to  me  now,  for  we  shall  meet  no  more." 

There  was  many  a  sob  at  that  word,  but  the  two  who  would  have 
been  most  touched  by  it  were  not  there  to  hear  it,  for  Greeba  and 
old  Adam  were  busy  with  their  own  enterprise,  as  we  shall  learn 
hereafter. 

When  Michael  Sunlocks  was  landed  at  Grimsey,  he  was  offered 
first  as  bondman  for  life,  or  prisoner-slave  to  the  largest  bonder 
there,  a  grasping  old  miser  named  Jonsson,  who,  like  Jorgen  him- 
self, had  never  allowed  his  bad  conscience  to  get  the  better  of  him. 
But  Jonsson  looked  at  Sunlocks  with  a  curl  of  the  lip  and  said: 
"What's  the  use  of  a  blind  man  ?"  So  the  end  of  all  was  that  Sun- 


298  THE   BONDMAN 

locks  was  put  in  charge  of  the  priest  of  the  island.  The  priest 
was  to  take  him  into  his  house,  to  feed,  clothe,  and  attend  to  him, 
and  report  his  condition  twice  a  year  to  the  Governor  at  Reykja- 
vik. For  such  service  to  the  State,  the  good  man  was  to  receive 
an  annual  stipend  of  one  hundred  kroner.  And  all  arrangements 
being  made,  the  escort  that  had  brought  Michael  Sunlocks  the  ten 
days'  journey  over  the  desert  set  their  faces  back  toward  the 
capital. 

Michael  Sunlocks  was  then  on  the  edge  of  the  habitable  world. 
There  was  no  attempt  to  confine  him,  for  his  home  was  an  island 
bound  by  a  rocky  coast;  he  was  blind  and,  therefore,  helpless,  and 
he  could  not  step  out  a  thousand  yards  alone  without  the  danger  of 
walking  over  a  precipice  into  the  sea.  So  that  with  all  his  brave 
show  of  liberty,  he  was  as  much  in  fetters  as  if  his  feet  had  been 
enchained  to  the  earth  beneath  them. 

The  priest,  who  was  in  truth  his  jailer,  was  one  who  has  already 
been  heard  of  in  this  history,  being  no  other  than  the  Sigfus  Thorns- 
son  (titled  Sir  from  his  cure  of  souls)  who  was  banished  from  his 
chaplaincy  at  Reykjavik  six  and  twenty  years  before  for  marrying 
Stephen  Orry  to  Rachel,  the  daughter  of  the  Governor-General 
Jorgensen.  He  had  been  young  then,  and  since  his  life  had  been 
cut  in  twain  he  had  fallen  into  some  excesses.  Thus  it  had  often 
happened  that  when  his  people  came  to  church  over  miles  of  their 
trackless  country  he  had  been  too  drunk  to  officiate,  and  some- 
times when  they  wished  to  make  sure  of  him  for  a  wedding  or  a 
christening,  they  had  been  compelled  to  decoy  him  into  his  house 
overnight  and  lock  him  up  until  morning.  Now  he  was  elderly 
and  lived  alone,  save  for  a  fractious  old  man-servant,  in  a  straggling 
old  moss-covered  house,  or  group  of  houses.  He  was  weak  of  will, 
timid  as  a  deer,  and  infirm  of  purpose,  yet  he  was  beloved  by  all 
men  and  pitied  by  all  women  for  his  sweet  simplicity,  whereof  any- 
one might  take  advantage,  and  for  the  tenderness  that  could  never 
resist  a  story  of  distress. 

The  coming  of  Michael  Sunlocks  startled  him  out  of  his  tipsy 
sleep  of  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  his  whole  household  was  put 
into  a  wild  turmoil.  In  the  midst  of  it,  when  he  was  at  his  wit's 
end  to  know  what  to  do  for  his  prisoner-guest,  a  woman,  a  stranger 
to  Grimsey,  carrying  a  child  in  her  arms,  presented  herself  at  his 
door.  She  was  young  and  comely,  poorly  but  not  meanly  clad,  and 
she  offered  herself  to  the  priest  as  his  servant.  Her  story  was  sim- 
ple, touching,  and  plausible.  She  had  lately  lost  her  husband,  an  Ice- 
lander, though  she  herself  was  a  foreigner,  as  her  speech  might  tell. 
And  hearing  at  Husavik  that  the  priest  of  Grimsey  was  a  lone  old 


THE   BONDMAN  299 

gentleman  without  kith  or  kin  or  belongings,  she  had  bethought 
herself  to  come  and  say  that  she  would  be  glad  to  take  service 
from  him  for  the  sake  of  the  home  he  might  offer  her. 

It  was  Greeba,  and  simple  old  Sir  Sigfus  fell  an  easy  prey  to 
her  woman's  wit.  He  wiped  his  rheumy  eyes  while  she  told  her 
story,  and  straightway  sent  her  into  the  kitchen.  Only  one  condition 
he  made  with  her,  and  that  was  that  she  was  to  bear  herself  in  his 
house  as  Iceland  women  bear  themselves  in  the  houses  of  Iceland 
masters.  No  more  than  that  and  no  less.  She  was  to  keep  to  her 
own  apartments  and  never  allow  herself  to  be  seen  or  heard  by  a 
guest  that  was  henceforth  to  live  with  him.  That  good  man  was 
blind,  and  would  trouble  her  but  little,  for  he  had  seen  sorrow, 
poor  soul,  and  was  very  silent. 

Greeba  consented  to  this  with  all  earnestness,  for  it  fell  straight 
in  the  way  of  her  own  designs.  But  with  a  true  woman's  innocent 
duplicity  she  bowed  modestly  and  said :  "He  shall  never  know  that 
I'm  in  your  house,  sir,  unless  you  tell  him  so  yourself." 

Thus  did  Greeba  place  herself  under  the  same  roof  with  Michael 
Sunlocks,  and  baffle  discovery  by  the  cunning  of  love.  Two  pur- 
poses were  to  be  served  by  her  artifice.  First,  she  was  to  be  con- 
stantly by  the  side  of  her  husband,  to  nurse  him  and  tend  him,  to 
succor  him,  and  to  watch  over  him.  Next,  she  was  to  be  near  him 
for  her  own  sake,  and  for  love's  sake,  to  win  him  back  to  her  some 
day  by  means  more  dear  than  those  that  had  won  him  for  her  at  the 
first.  She  had  decided  not  to  reveal  herself  to  him  in  the  mean- 
time, for  he  had  lost  faith  in  her  affection.  He  had  charged  her 
with  marrying  him  for  pride's  sake,  but  he  should  see  that  she  had 
married  him  for  himself  alone.  The  heart  of  his  love  was  dead,  but 
day  by  day,  unknown,  unseen,  unheard,  she  would  breathe  upon 
it,  until  the  fire  in  its  ashes  lived  again.  Such  was  the  design  with 
which  Greeba  took  the  place  of  a  menial  in  the  house  where  her 
husband  lived  as  a  prisoner,  and  little  did  she  count  the  cost  of  it. 

Six  months  passed,  and  she  kept  her  promise  to  the  priest  to  live 
as  an  Iceland  servant  in  the  house  of  an  Iceland  master.  She  was 
never  seen  and  never  heard,  and  what  personal  service  was  called 
for  was  done  by  the  snappish  old  man-servant.  But  she  filled  the 
old  house,  once  so  muggy  and  dark,  with  all  the  cheer  and  comfort 
of  life.  She  knew  that  Michael  Sunlocks  felt  the  change,  for  one 
day  she  heard  him  say  to  the  priest,  as  he  lifted  his  blind  face  and 
seemed  to  look  around,  "One  would  think  that  this  place  must  be 
full  of  sunshine." 

"Why,  and  so  it  is,"  said  the  priest,  "and  that's  my  good  house- 
keeper's doing." 


3oo  THE   BONDMAN 

"I  have  heard  her  step,"  said  Michael  Sunlocks.    "Who  is  she  ?" 

"A  poor  young  woman  that  has  lately  lost  her  husband,"  said 
the  priest. 

"Young,  you  say?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"Why,  yes,  young  as  I  go,"  said  the  priest. 

"Poor  soul !"  said  Sunlocks. 

It  cost  Greeba  many  a  pang  not  to  fling  herself  at  her  husband's 
feet  at  hearing  that  word  so  sadly  spoken.  But  she  remembered 
her  promise  and  was  silent.  Not  long  afterward  she  heard 
Michael  Sunlocks  ask  the  priest  if  he  had  never  thought  of  mar- 
riage. And  the  priest  answered  yes,  that  he  was  to  have  married 
at  Reykjavik  about  the  time  he  was  sent  to  Grimsey,  but  the  lady 
had  looked  shy  at  his  banishment  and  declined  to  share  it. 

"So  I  have  never  looked  at  a  woman  again,"  said  the  priest 

"And  I  daresay  you  have  your  tender  thoughts  of  her,  though 
so  badly  treated,"  said  Sunlocks. 

"Well,  yes,"  said  the  priest,  "yes." 

"You  were  chaplain  at  Reykjavik,  but  looking  to  be  priest  or 
dean,  and  perhaps  bishop  some  day  ?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"Well,  maybe  so;  such  dreams  come  in  one's  youth,"  said  the 
priest. 

"And  when  you  were  sent  to  Grimsey  there  was  nothing  before 
you  but  a  cure  of  less  than  a  hundred  souls?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"That  is  so,"  said  the  priest. 

"The  old  story,"  said  Sunlocks  and  he  drew  a  deep  breath. 

But  deeper  far  was  the  breath  that  Greeba  drew,  for  it  seemed 
to  be  the  last  gasp  of  her  heart. 

A  year  passed,  and  never  once  had  Greeba  spoken  that  her 
husband  might  hear  her.  But  if  she  did  not  speak,  she  listened  al- 
ways, and  the  silence  of  her  tongue  seemed  to  make  her  ears  the 
more  keen.  Thus  she  found  a  way  to  meet  all  his  wishes,  and  be- 
fore he  had  asked  he  was  answered.  If  the  day  was  cold  he  found 
gloves  to  his  hand;  if  he  thought  to  wash  there  was  water  beside 
him ;  if  he  wished  to  write  the  pen  lay  near  his  fingers.  Meantime 
he  never  heard  more  than  a  light  footfall  and  the  rustle  of  a  dress 
about  him,  but  as  these  sounds  awoke  painful  memories  he  listened 
and  said  nothing. 

The  summer  had  come  and  gone  in  which  he  could  walk  out  by 
the  priest's  arm,  or  lie  by  the  hour  within  sound  of  a  stream,  and 
the  winter  had  fallen  in  with  its  short  days  and  long  nights.  And 
once,  when  the  snow  lay  thick  on  the  ground,  Greeba  heard  him 
say  how  cheerfully  he  might  cheat  time  of  many  a  weary  hour  of 
days  like  that  if  only  he  had  a  fiddle  to  beguile  them.  At  that  she 


THE   BONDMAN  30! 

remembered  that  it  was  not  want  of  money  that  had  placed  her 
where  she  was,  and  before  the  spring  of  that  year  a  little  church 
organ  came  from  Reykjavik,  addressed  to  the  priest,  as  a  present 
from  some  one  whose  name  was  unknown  to  him. 

"Some  guardian  angel  seems  to  hover  around  us,"  said  Michael 
Sunlocks,  "to  give  us  everything  that  we  can  wish  for." 

The  joy  in  his  blind  face  brought  smiles  into  the  face  of 
Greeba,  but  her  heart  was  heavy  for  all  that.  To  live  within  hourly 
sight  of  love,  yet  never  to  share  it,  was  to  sit  at  a  feast  and  eat 
nothing.  To  hear  his  voice,  yet  never  to  answer  it,  to  see  his  face, 
yet  never  to  touch  it  with  the  lips  that  hungered  to  kiss  it,  was  an 
ordeal  more  terrible  than  any  woman's  heart  could  bear.  Should 
she  not  speak?  Might  she  not  reveal  herself?  Not  yet,  not  yet! 
But  how  long,  oh,  how  long? 

In  the  heat  of  her  impatience  she  could  not  quite  restrain 
herself,  and,  though  she  dared  not  speak,  she  sang.  It  was  on  the 
Sunday  after  the  organ  cam<e,  when  all  the  people  at  Grimsey 
were  at  church,  in  their  strong  odor  of  fish  and  sea-fowl,  to  hear  the 
strange  new  music.  Michael  Sunlocks  played  it,  and  when  the  pejfc-J 
pie  sang  Greeba  also  joined  them.  Her  voice  was  low  at  first,  but 
she  soon  lost  herself  and  then  it  rose  above  the  other  voices.  Sud- 
denly the  organ  stopped,  and  she  was  startled  to  see  the  blind  face 
of  her  husband  turning  in  her  direction. 

Later  the  same  day  she  heard  Sunlocks  say  to  the  priest,  "Who 
was  the  lady  who  sang?" 

"Why,  that  was  my  good  housekeeper,"  said  the  priest. 

"And  did  you  say  that  she  had  lost  her  husband  ?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"Yes,  poor  thing,  and  she  is  a  foreigner,  too,"  said  the  priest. 

"Did  you  say  a  foreigner?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"Yes,  and  she  has  a  child  left  with  her  also,"  said  the  priest. 

"A  child?"  said  Sifnlocks.  And  then  after  a  pause  he  added, 
with  more  indifference,  "Poor  girl !  poor  girl !" 

Hearing  this,  Greeba  fluttered  on  the  verge  of  discovering  her- 
self. "If  only  I  could  be  sure,"  she  thought,  but  she  could  not;  and 
the  more  closely  for  the  chance  that  had  so  nearly  revealed  her, 
she  hid  herself  henceforward  in  the  solitude  of  an  Iceland  servant. 

Two  years  passed  and  then  Greeba  had  to  share  her  secret 
with  another.  That  other  was  her  own  child.  The  little  man 
was  nearly  three  years  old  by  this  time,  walking  a  little  and  talking 
a  great  deal,  and  not  to  be  withheld  by  any  care  from  going  over 
every  corner  of  the  house.  He  found  Michael  Sunlocks  sitting 
alone  in  his  darkness,  and  the  two  struck  up  a  fast  friendship.  They 
talked  in  baby  fashion,  and  played  on  the  floor  for  hours.  With  a 


302  THE   BONDMAN 

,\vild  thrill  of  the  heart,  Greeba  saw  those  twain  together,  and  it 
cost  her  all  she  had  of  patience  and  self-command  not  to  break  in 
upon  them  with  a  shower  of  rapturous  kisses.  But  she  held  back 
her  heart  like  a  dog  on  the  leash  and  listened,  while  her  eyes 
rained  tears  and  her  lips  smiled,  to  the  words  that  passed  between 
them. 

"And  what's  your  name,  my  sweet  one?"  said  Sunlocks  in  En- 
glish. 

"Michael,"  lisped  the  little  man. 

"So  ?    And  an  Englishman,  too.    That's  brave." 

"Ot's  the  name  of  your  'ickle  boy?" 

"Ah,  I've  got  none,  sweetheart." 

"Oh." 

"But  if  I  had  one  perhaps  his  name  would  be  Michael  also." 

"Oh." 

The  little  eyes  looked  up  into  the  blind  face,  and  the  little  lip 
\  began  to  fall.  Then,  by  a  sudden  impulse,  the  little  legs  clambered 
f  up  to  the  knee  of  Sunlocks,  and  the  little  head  nestled  close  against 
his  breast. 

"I'll  be  your  'ickle  boy." 

"So  you  shall,  my  sweet  one,  and  you  shall  come  again  and  sit 
with  me,  and  sing  to  me,  for  I  am  very  lonely  sometimes,  and  your 
dear  voice  will  cheer  me." 

But  the  little  man  had  forgotten  his  trouble  by  this  time,  and 
scrambled  back  to  the  floor.  There  he  sat  on  his  haunches  like  a 
frog,  and  cried,  "Look !  look !  look !"  as  he  held  up  a  white  pebble 
in  his  dumpy  hand. 

"I  can  not  look,  little  one,  for  I  am  blind." 

"Ot's  blind?" 

"Having  eyes  that  can  not  see,  sweetheart." 

"Oh." 

"But  your  eyes  can  see,  and  if  you  are  to  be  my  little  boy,  my 
little  Michael,  your  eyes  shall  see  for  my  eyes  also,  and  you  shall 
come  to  me  every  day,  and  tell  me  when  the  sun  is  shining,  and 
the  sky  is  blue,  and  then  we  will  go  out  together  and  listen  for  the 
birds  that  will  be  singing." 

"Dat's  nice,"  said  the  little  fellow,  looking  down  at  the  pebble 
in  his  palm,  and  just  then  the  priest  came  into  the  house  out  of 
the  snow. 

"How  comes  it  that  this  sweet  little  man  and  I  have  never  met 
before?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"You  might  live  ten  years  in  an  Iceland  house  and  never  see 
the  children  of  its  servants,"  said  the  priest. 


THE   BONDMAN  303 

"I've  heard  his  silvery  voice,  though,"  said  Sunlocks.  "What 
is  the  color  of  his  eyes  ?" 

"Blue,"  said  the  priest. 

"Then  his  hair — this  long  curly  hair — it  must  be  of  the  color 
of  the  sun?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"Flaxen,"  said  the  priest. 

"Run  along  to  your  mother,  sweetheart,  run,"  said  Sunlocks, 
and,  dropping  back  in  his  seat,  he  murmured,  "How  easily  he  might 
have  been  my  son  indeed." 

Kneeling  on  both  knees,  her  hot  face  turned  down  and  her  parted 
lips  quivering,  Greeba  had  listened  to  all  this  with  the  old  delicious 
trembling  at  both  sides  of  her  heart.  And  going  back  to  her  own 
room,  she  caught  sight  of  herself  in  the  glass,  and  saw  that  her  eyes 
were  dancing  like  diamonds  and  all  her  cheeks  a  rosy  red.  Life, 
and  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  seemed  to  have  shot  into  her  face  in  an 
instant,  and  while  she  looked  there  came  over  her  a  creeping  thrill 
of  delight,  for  she  knew  that  she  was  beautiful.  And  because  he 
loved  beauty  whose  love  was  everything  to  her,  she  cried  for  joy, 
and  picked  up  her  boy,  where  he  stood  tugging  at  her  gown,  and 
kissed  him  rapturously. 

The  little  man,  with  proper  manly  indifference  to  such  endear- 
ments, wriggled  back  to  the  ground,  and  then  Greeba  remembered, 
with  a  flash  that  fell  on  her  brain  like  a  sword,  that  her  husband 
was  blind  now,  and  all  the  beauty  of  the  world  was  nothing  to  him. 
Smitten  by  this  thought,  she  stood  a  moment,  while  the  sunshine 
died  out  of  her  eyes  and  the  rosy  red  out  of  her  cheeks.  But 
presently  it  came  to  her  to  ask  herself  if  Sunlocks  was  blind  for- 
ever, and  if  nothing  could  be  done  for  him.  This  brought  back, 
with  pangs  of  remorse  for  such  long  forgetfulness,  the  memory 
of  some  man,  an  apothecary  of  Husavik,  who  had  the  credit  of 
curing  many  of  blindness  after  accidents  in  the  northern  mines 
where  free  men  worked  for  wage.  So,  thinking  of  this  apothecary 
throughout  that  day  and  the  next,  she  found  at  last  a  crooked  way 
to  send  money  to  him,  out  of  the  store  that  still  remained  to  her, 
and  to  ask  him  to  come  to  Grimsey. 

But,  waiting  for  the  coming  of  the  apothecary,  a  new  dread, 
that  was  also  a  new  hope,  stole  over  her. 

Since  that  first  day  on  which  her  boy  and  her  husband  talked 
together,  and  every  day  thereafter  when  Sunlocks  had  called  out 
"Little  Michael !  little  Michael !"  and  she  had  sent  the  child  in, 
with  his  little  flaxen  curls  combed  out,  his  little  chubby  face  rubbed 
to  a  shiny  red,  and  all  his  little  body  smelling  sweet  with  the  soft 
odors  of  childhood,  she  had  noticed — she  could  not  help  it — that 


304  THE   BONDMAN 

Sunlocks  listened  for  the  sound  of  her  own  footstep  whenever  by 
chance  (which  might  have  been  rare)  she  passed  his  way. 

And  at  first  this  was  a  cause  of  fear  to  her,  lest  he  should  dis- 
cover her  before  her  time  came  to  reveal  herself ;  and  then  of  hope 
that  he  might  even  do  so,  and  save  her  against  her  will  from  the 
sickening  pains  of  hungry  waiting ;  and  finally  of  horror,  that  per- 
haps after  all  he  was  thinking  of  her  as  another  woman.  This  last 
thought  sent  all  the  blood  of  her  body  tingling  into  her  face,  and  on 
the  day  it  flashed  upon  her,  do  what  she  would  she  could  not  but 
hate  him  for  it  as  for  an  infidelity  that  might  not  be  forgiven. 

"He  never  speaks  of  me,"  she  thought,  "never  thinks  of  me;  I 
am  dead  to  him ;  quite,  quite  dead  and  swept  out  of  his  mind." 

It  was  a  cruel  conflict  of  love  and  hate,  and  if  it  had  come  to 
a  man  he  would  have  said  within  himself,  "By  this  token  I  know 
that  she  whom  I  love  has  forgotten  me,  and  may  be  happy  with  an- 
other some  day.  Well,  I  am  nothing — let  me  go  my  ways."  But 
that  is  not  the  gospel  of  a  woman's  love,  with  all  its  sweet,  delicious 
selfishness.  So  after  Greeba  had  told  herself  once  or  twice  that 
her  husband  had  forgotten  her,  she  told  herself  a  score  of  times  that 
do  what  he  would  he  should  yet  be  hers,  hers  only,  and  no  other 
woman's  in  all  the  wide  world.  Then  she  thought,  "How  foolish ! 
Who  is  there  to  take  him  from  me?  Why,  no  one." 

About  the  same  time  she  heard  Sunlocks  question  the  priest 
concerning  her,  asking  what  the  mother  of  little  Michael  was  like 
to  look  upon.  And  the  priest  answered  that  if  the  eyes  of  an  old 
curmudgeon  like  himself  could  see  straight,  she  was  comely  beyond 
her  grade  in  life,  and  young,  too,  though  her  brown  hair  had  some- 
times a  shade  of  gray,  and  gentle  and  silent,  and  of  a  soft  and 
touching  voice. 

"I've  heard  her  voice  once,"  said  Sunlocks.  "And  her  husband 
was  an  Icelander,  and  he  is  dead,  you  say?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  priest;  "and  she's  like  myself  in  one  thing." 

"And  what  is  that?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"That  she  has  never  been  able  to  look  at  anybody  else,"  said  the 
priest.  "And  that's  why  she  is  here,  you  must  know,  burying  her- 
self alive  on  old  Grimsey." 

"Oh,"  said  Sunlocks,  in  the  low  murmur  of  the  blind,  "if  God 
had  but  given  me  this  woman,  so  sweet,  so  true,  so  simple,  instead 
of  her — of  her — and  yet — and  yet — " 

"Gracious  heavens!"  thought  Greeba,  "he  is  falling  in  love 
with  me." 

At  that,  the  hot  flush  overspread  her  cheeks  again,  and  her 
dark  eyes  danced,  and  all  her  loveliness  flowed  back  upon  her  in 


THE   BONDMAN  305 

an  instant.  And  then  a  subtle  fancy,  a  daring  scheme,  a  wild  ad- 
venture broke  on  her  heart  and  head,  and  made  every  nerve  in  her 
body  quiver.  She  would  let  him  go  on;  he  should  think  she  was 
the  other  woman ;  she  would  draw  him  on  to  love  her,  and  one  day 
when  she  held  him  fasrttnd  sure,  and  he  was  hers,  hers,  hers  only 
forever  and  ever,  she  would  open  her  arms  and  cry,  "Sunlocks, 
Sunlocks,  I  am  Greeba,  Greeba!" 

It  was  while  she  was  in  the  first  hot  flush  of  this  wild  thought, 
never  doubting  but  the  frantic  thing  was  possible,  for  love  knows 
no  impediments,  that  the  apothecary  came  from  Husavik,  saying  he 
was  sent  by  some  unknown  correspondent  named  Adam  Fair- 
brother,  who  had  written  from  London.  He  examined  the  eyes  of 
Michael  Sunlocks  by  the  daylight  first,  but  the  season  being  the 
winter  season,  and  the  daylight  heavy  with  fog  from  off  the  sea, 
he  asked  for  a  candle,  and  Greeba  was  called  to  hold  it  while  he 
examined  the  eyes  again.  Never  before  had  she  been  so  near  to 
her  husband  throughout  the  two  years  that  she  had  lived  under  the 
same  roof  with  him,  and  now  that  she  stood  face  to  face  with  him, 
within  sound  of  his  very  breathing,  with  nothing  between  them  but 
the  thin  gray  film  that  lay  over  his  dear  eyes,  she  could  not  per- 
suade herself  but  that  he  was  looking  at  her  and  seeing  her.  Then 
she  began  to  tremble,  and  presently  a  voice  said : 

"Steadily,  young  woman,  steadily,  or  your  candle  may  fall  on 
the  good  master's  face." 

She  tried  to  compose  herself,  but  could  not,  and  when  she  had 
recovered  from  her  first  foolish  dread,  there  came  a  fear  that  was 
not  foolish — a  fear  of  the  verdict  of  the  apothecary.  Waiting  for 
this  in  those  minutes  that  seemed  to  be  hours,  she  knew  that  she 
was  on  the  verge  of  betraying  herself,  and  however  she  held  her 
breath  she  could  see  that  her  bosom  was  heaving. 

"Yes,"  said  the  apothecary,  calmly,  "yes,  I  see  no  reason  why 
you  should  not  recover  your  sight." 

"Thank  God!"  said  Michael  Sunlocks. 

"Thank  God  again,"  said  the  priest. 

And  Greeba,  who  had  dropped  the  candle  to  the  floor  at  length, 
had  to  run  from  the  room  on  the  instant,  lest  the  cry  of  her  heart 
should  straightway  be  the  cry  of  her  lips  as  well,  "Thank  God, 
again  and  again,  forever  and  forever." 

And,  being  back  in  her  own  apartment,  she  plucked  up  her 
child  into  her  arms,  and  cried  over  him,  and  laughed  over  him, 
and  whispered  strange  words  of  delight  into  his  ear,  mad  words 
of  love,  wild  words  of  hope. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  whispered,  "he  will  recover  his  sight,  and  see 


306  THE   BONDMAN 

his  little  son,  and  know  him  for  his  own,  his  own,  his  own.  Oh, 
yes,  yes,  yes,  he  will  know  him,  he  will  know  him,  for  he  will  see 
his  own  face,  his  own  dear  face,  in  little  Michael's." 

But  next  day,  when  the  apothecary  had  gone,  leaving  lotions 
and  drops  for  use  throughout  a  month,  and  promising  to  return  at 
the  end  of  it,  Greeba's  new  joy  made  way  for  a  new  terror,  as  she 
reflected  that  just  as  Sunlocks  would  see  little  Michael  if  he  re- 
covered his  sight,  so  he  would  see  herself.  At  that  thought  all 
her  heart  was  in  her  mouth  again,  for  she  told  herself  that  if  Sun- 
locks  saw  her  he  would  also  see  what  deception  she  had  practised 
in  that  house,  and  would  hate  her  for  it,  and  tell  her,  as  he  had  told 
her  once  before,  that  it  came  of  the  leaven  of  her  old  lightness  that 
had  led  her  on  from  false-dealing  to  false-dealing,  and  so  he  would 
turn  his  back  upon  her  or  drive  her  from  him. 

Then  in  the  cruel  war  of  her  feelings  she  hardly  knew  whether 
to  hope  that  Sunlocks  should  recover  his  sight,  or  remain  as  he 
was.  Her  pity  cried  out  for  the  one,  and  her  love  for  the  other. 
If  he  recovered,  at  least  there  would  be  light  for  him  in  his  dun- 
geon, though  she  might  not  be  near  to  share  it.  But  if  he  remained 
as  he  was,  she  would  be  beside  him  always,  his  second  sight,  his 
silent  guardian  spirit,  eating  her  heart  out  with  hungry  love,  but 
content  and  thanking  God. 

"Why  couldn't  I  leave  things  as  they  were?"  she  asked  herself, 
but  she  was  startled  out  of  the  selfishness  of  her  love  by  a  great 
crisis  that  came  soon  afterward. 

Now  Michael  Sunlocks  had  been  allowed  but  little  intercourse 
with  the  world  during  the  two  and  a  half  years  of  his  imprison- 
ment since  the  day  of  his  recapture  at  the  Mount  of  Laws.  While 
in  the  prison  at  Reykjavik  he  had  heard  the  pitiful  story  of  that 
day ;  who  his  old  yoke-fellow  had  been,  what  he  had  done  and  said, 
and  how  at  last,  when  his  brave  scheme  had  tottered  to  ruin,  he 
had  gone  out  of  the  ken  and  knowledge  of  all  men.  Since  Sunlocks 
came  to  Grimsey  he  had  written  once  to  Adam  Fairbrother,  asking 
tenderly  after  the  old  man's  own  condition,  earnestly  after  Greeba's 
material  welfare,  and  with  deep  affectionate  solicitude  for  the  last 
tidings  of  Jason.  His  letter  never  reached  its  destination,  for  the 
Governor  of  Iceland  was  the  postmaster  as  well.  And  Adam  on  his 
part  had  written  twice  to  Michael  Sunlocks,  once  from  Copenhagen, 
•where  (when  Greeba  had  left  for  Grimsey)  he  had  gone  by  help 
of  her  money  from  Reykjavik,  thinking  to  see  the  King  of  Den- 
mark in  his  own  person;  and  once  from  London,  whereto  he  had 
followed  on  when  that  bold  design  had  failed  him.  But  Adam's 
letter  shared  the  fate  of  the  letter  of  Sunlocks,  and  thus  through 


THE   BONDMAN  307 

two  long  years  no  news  of  the  world  without  had  broken  the  silence 
of  that  lonely  home  on  the  rock  of  the  Arctic  seas. 

But  during  that  time  there  had  been  three  unwritten  communi- 
cations from  Jorgen  Jorgensen.  The  first  came  after  some  six 
months  in  the  shape  of  a  Danish  sloop  of  war,  which  took  up  its 
moorings  in  the  roadstead  outside ;  the  second  after  a  year,  in  the 
shape  of  a  flagstaff  and  flag  which  were  to  be  used  twice  a  day  for 
signaling  to  the  ship  that  the  prisoner  was  still  in  safe  custody; 
the  third  after  two  years,  in  the  shape  of  a  huge  lock  and  key,  to 
be  placed  on  some  room  in  which  the  prisoner  was  henceforward  to 
be  confined.  These  three  communications,  marking  in  their  con- 
trary way  the  progress  of  old  Adam's  persistent  suit,  first  in  Den- 
mark and  then  in  England,  were  followed  after  a  while  by  a  fourth. 
This  was  a  message  from  the  Governor  at  Reykjavik  to  the  old 
priest  of  Grimsey,  that,  as  he  valued  his  livelihood  and  life  he  was 
to  keep  close  guard  and  watch  over  his  prisoner,  and,  if  need  be, 
to  warn  him  that  a  worse  fate  might  come  to  him  at  any  time. 

Now,  the  evil  hour  when  this  final  message  came  was  just  upon 
the  good  time  when  the  apothecary  from  Husavik  brought  the  joy- 
ful tidings  that  Sunlocks  might  recover  his  sight,  and  the  blow  was 
the  heavier  for  the  hope  that  had  gone  before  it.  All  Grimsey  shared 
both,  for  the  fisher-folk  had  grown  to  like  the  pale  stranger  who, 
though  so  simple  in  speech  and  manner,  had  been  a  great  man  in 
some  way  that  they  scarcely  knew — having  no  one  to  tell  them, 
being  so  far  out  of  the  world — but  had  fallen  upon  humiliation  and 
deep  dishonor.  Michael  Sunlocks  himself  took  the  blow  with  com- 
posure, saying  it  was  plainly  his  destiny  and  of  a  piece  with  the 
rest  of  his  fate,  wherein  no  good  thing  had  ever  come  to  him  with- 
out an  evil  one  coming  on  the  back  of  it.  The  tender  heart  of  the 
old  priest  was  thrown  into  wild  commotion,  for  Sunlocks  had  be- 
come, during  the  two  years  of  their  life  together,  as  a  son  to  him, 
a  son  that  was  as  a  father  also,  a  stay  and  guardian,  before  whom 
his  weakness — that  of  intemperance — stood  rebuked. 

But  the  trouble  of  old  Sir  Sigfus  was  as  nothing  to  that  of 
Greeba.  In  the  message  of  the  Governor  she  saw  death,  instant 
death,  death  without  word  or  warning,  and  every  hour  of  her  life 
thereafter  was  beset  with  terrors.  It  was  the  month  of  February; 
and  if  the  snow  fell  from  the  mossy  eaves  in  heavy  thuds,  she 
thought  it  was  the  muffled  tread  of  the  guards  who  were  to  come 
for  her  husband ;  and  if  the  ice-floes  that  swept  down  from  Green- 
land cracked  on  the  coast  of  Grimsey,  she  heard  the  shot  that  was 
to  end  his  life.  When  Sunlocks  talked  of  destiny  she  cried,  and 
when  the  priest  railed  at  Jorgen  Jorgensen  (having  his  own  reason 


308  THE   BONDMAN 

to  hate  him)  she  cursed  the  name  of  the  tyrant.  But  all  the  while 
she  had  to  cry  without  tears  and  curse  only  in  the  dark  silence  of 
her  heart,  though  she  was  near  to  betraying  herself  a  hundred 
times  a  day. 

"Oh,  it  is  cruel,"  she  thought,  "very,  very  cruel.  Is  this  what 
I  have  waited  for  all  this  weary,  weary  time?" 

And  though  so  lately  her  love  had  fought  with  her  pity  to  prove 
that  it  was  best  for  both  of  them  that  Sunlocks  should  remain  blind, 
she  found  it  another  disaster  now,  in  the  dear  inconsistency  of 
womanhood,  that  he  should  die  on  the  eve  of  regaining  his  sight. 

"He  will  never  see  his  boy,"  she  thought,  "never,  never,  never 
now." 

Yet  she  could  hardly  believe  it  true  that  the  cruel  chance  could 
befall.  What  good  would  the  death  of  Sunlocks  do  to  any  one? 
What  evil  did  it  bring  to  any  creature  that  he  was  alive  on  that 
rock  at  the  furthest  ends  of  the  earth  and  sea?  Blind,  too,  and 
helpless,  degraded  from  his  high  place,  his  young  life  wrecked,  and 
his  noble  gifts  wasted !  There  must  have  been  some  mistake.  She 
would  go  out  to  the  ship  and  ask  if  it  were  not  so. 

And  with  such  wild  thoughts  she  hurried  off  to  the  little  village 
at  the  edge  of  the  bay.  There  she  stood  a  long  tour  by  the  fisher- 
men's jetty,  looking  wistfully  out  to  where  the  sloop-of-war  lay, 
like  a  big  woden  tub,  between  gloomy  sea  and  gloomy  sky,  and  her 
spirit  failed  her,  and  though  she  had  borrowed  a  boat  she  could 
go  no  further. 

"They  might  laugh  at  me,  and  make  a  jest  of  me,"  she  thought, 
"for  I  can  not  tell  them  that  I  am  his  wife." 

With  that  she  went  her  way  back  as  she  came,  crying  on  the 
good  powers  to  tell  her  what  to  do  next,  and  where  to  look  for 
help.  And  entering  in  at  the  porch  of  her  own  apartments,  which 
stood  aside  from  the  body  of  the  house,  she  heard  voices  within, 
and  stopped  to  listen.  At  first  she  thought  they  were  the  voices  of 
her  child  and  her  husband ;  but  though  one  of  them  was  that  of  little 
Michael,  the  other  was  too  deep,  too  strong,  too  sad  for  the  voice 
of  Sunlocks. 

"And  so  your  name  is  Michael,  my  brave  boy.  Michael ! 
Michael !"  said  the  voice,  and  it  was  strange  and  yet  familiar. 
"And  how  like  you  are  to  your  mother,  too!  How  like!  How 
very  like !"  And  the  voice  seemed  to  break  in  the  speaker's  throat. 

Greeba  grew  dizzy,  and  stumbled  forward.  And,  as  she  entered 
the  house,  a  man  rose  from  the  settle,  put  little  Michael  to  the 
ground,  and  faced  about  to  her.  The  man  was  Jason. 


THE   BONDMAN  309 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE    GOSPEL    OF    RENUNCIATION 


WHAT  had  happened  in  the  great  world  during  the  two  years 
in  which  Michael  Sunlocks  had  been  out  of  it  is  very  simple  and 
easily  told.  Old  Adam  Fairbrother  had  failed  at  London  as  he 
had  failed  at  Copenhagen,  and  all  the  good  that  had  come  of  his 
efforts  had  ended  in  evil.  It  was  then  that  accident  helped  him  in 
his  despair. 

The  relations  of  England  and  Denmark  had  long  been  doubtful, 
for  France  seemed  to  be  stepping  between  them.  Napoleon  was 
getting  together  a  combination  of  powers  against  England,  and  in 
order  to  coerce  Denmark  into  using  her  navy — a  small  but  efficient 
one — on  the  side  of  the  alliance,  he  threatened  to  send  a  force 
overland.  He  counted  without  the  resources  of  Nelson,  who,  with 
no  more  ado  than  setting  sail,  got  across  to  Copenhagen,  took  pos- 
session of  every  ship  of  war  that  lay  in  Danish  waters,  and  brought 
them  home  to  England  in  a  troop. 

When  Adam  heard  of  this  he  saw  his  opportunity  in  a  moment, 
and  hurrying  away  to  Nelson  at  Spithead  he  asked  if  among  the 
Danish  ships  that  had  been  captured  there  was  a  sloop-of-war  that 
had  lain  near  two  years  off  the  island  of  Grimsey.  Nelson  an- 
swered, No,  but  that  if  there  was  such  a  vessel  still  at  liberty  he 
was  not  of  a  mind  to  leave  it  to  harass  him.  So  Adam  told  why  the 
sloop  was  there,  and  Nelson,  waiting  for  no  further  instructions, 
despatched  an  English  man-of-war, "  with  Adam  aboard  of  her,  to 
do  for  the  last  of  the  Danish  fleet  what  had  been  done  for  the  body 
of  it,  and  at  the  same  time  to  recover  the  English  prisoner  whom 
she  had  been  sent  to  watch. 

Before  anything  was  known  of  this  final  step  of  Nelson,  his 
former  proceeding  had  made  a  great  noise  throughout  Europe, 
where  it  was  loudly  condemned  as  against  the  law  of  nations,  by 
the  racals  who  found  themselves  outwitted.  When  the  report 
reached  Reykjavik,  Jorgen  Jorgensen  saw  nothing  that  could  come 
of  it  but  instant  war  between  Denmark  and  England,  and  nothing 
that  could  come  of  war  with  England  but  disaster  to  Denmark,  for 
he  knew  the  English  navy  of  old.  So  to  make  doubly  sure  of  his 


3io  THE   BONDMAN 

own  position  in  a  tumult  wherein  little  things  would  of  a  certainty 
be  seized  up  with  great  ones,  he  conceived  the  idea  of  putting 
Michael  Sunlocks  out  of  the  way,  and  thus  settling  one  harassing 
complication.  Then  losing  no  time  he  made  ready  a  despatch  to  the 
officer  in  command  of  the  sloop-of-war  off  Grimsey,  ordering  him  to 
send  a  company  of  men  ashore  immediately  to  execute  the  prisoner 
lying  in  charge  of  the  priest  of  the  island. 

Now  this  despatch,  whereof  the  contents  became  known  through- 
out Reykjavik  in  less  time  than  Jorgen  took  to  write  and  seal  it, 
had  to  be  carried  to  Grimsey  by  two  of  his  body-guard.  But  the 
men  were  Danes,  and  as  they  did  not  know  the  way  across  the 
Bursting-sand  desert,  an  Iceland  guide  had  to  be  found  for  them. 
To  this  end  the  two  taverns  of  the  town  were  beaten  up  for  a  man, 
who  at  that  season — it  was  winter,  and  the  snow  lay  thick  over  the 
lava  streams  and  the  sand — would  adventure  so  far  from  home. 

And  now  it  was  just  at  this  time,  after  two  and  a  half  years 
in  which  no  man  had  seen  him  or  heard  of  him,  that  Jason  returned 
to  Reykjavik.  Scare  any  one  knew  him.  He  was  the  wreck  of  him- 
self, a  worn,  torn,  pitiful,  broken  ruin  of  a  man.  People  lifted  both 
hands  at  sight  of  him,  but  he  showed  no  self-pity.  Day  after  day, 
night  after  night,  he  frequented  the  taverns.  He  drank  as  he  had 
never  before  been  known  to  drink ;  he  laughed  as  he  had  never  been 
heard  to  laugh;  he  sang  as  he  had  never  been  heard  to  sing,  and 
to  all  outward  appearance  he  was  nothing  now  but  a  shameless, 
graceless,  disorderly,  abandoned  profligate. 

Jorgen  Jorgensen  heard  that  Jason  had  returned,  and  ordered 
his  people  to  fetch  him  to  Government  House.  They  did  so,  and 
Jorgen  and  Jason  stood  face  to  face.  Jorgen  looked  at  Jason  as 
one  who  would  say,  "Dare  you  forget  the  two  men  whose  lives  you 
have  taken?"  And  Jason  looked  back  at  Jorgen  as  one  who  would 
answer,  "Dare  you  remember  that  I  spared  your  own  life  ?"  Then, 
without  a  word  to  Jason,  old  Jorgen  turned  to  his  people  and  said, 
"Take  him  away."  So  Jason  went  back  to  his  dissipations,  and 
thereafter  no  man  said  yea  or  nay  to  him. 

But  when  he  heard  of  the  despatch,  he  was  sobered  by  it  in  a 
moment,  and  when  the  guards  came  on  their  search  for  a  guide 
to  the  tavern  where  he  was,  he  leaped  to  his  feet  and  said, 
"I'll  go." 

"You  won't  pass,  my  lad,"  said  one  of  the  Danes,  "for  you 
would  be  dead  drunk  before  you  crossed  the  Basket  Slope  Hill.'' 

"Would  I  ?"  said  Jason,  moodily,  "who  knows  ?"  And  with  that 
he  shambled  out.  But  in  his  heart  he  cried,  "The  hour  has  come  at 
last!  Thank  God!  Thank  God!" 


THE   BONDMAN  311 

Before  he  was  missed  he  had  gone  from  Reykjavik,  and  made 
his  way  to  the  desert  with  his  face  toward  Grimsey. 

The  next  day  the  guards  found  their  guide  and  set  out  on  their 
journey. 

The  day  after  that  a  Danish  captain  arrived  at  Reykjavik  from 
Copenhagen,  and  reported  to  Jorgen  Jorgensen  that  off  the  West- 
mann  Islands  he  had  sighted  a  British  man-of-war,  making  for  the 
northern  shores  of  Iceland.  This  news  put  Jorgen  into  extreme 
agitation,  for  he  guessed  at  its  meaning  in  an  instant.  As  surely 
as  the  warship  was  afloat  she  was  bound  for  Grimsey,  to  capture  the 
sloop  that  lay  there,  and  as  surely  as  England  knew  of  the  sloop, 
she  also  knew  of  the  prisoner  whom  it  was  sent  to  watch.  British 
sea-captains,  from  Drake  downward,  had  been  a  race  of  pirates  and 
cutthroats,  and  if  the  captain  of  this  ship,  on  landing  at  Grimsey, 
found  Michael  Sunlocks  dead,  he  would  follow  on  to  Reykjavik  and 
never  take  rest  until  he  had  strung  up  the  Governor  and  his  people 
to  the  nearest  yardarm. 

So  thinking  in  the  wild  turmoil  of  his  hot  old  head,  wherein 
everything  he  had  thought  before  was  turned  topsy-turvy,  Jorgen 
Jorgensen  decided  to  countermand  his  order  for  the  execution  of 
Sunlocks.  But  his  despatch  was  then  a  day  gone  on  its  way.  Ice- 
land guides  were  a  tribe  of  lazy  vagabonds,  not  a  man  or  boy  about 
his  person  was  to  be  trusted,  and  so  Jorgen  concluded  that  nothing 
would  serve  but  that  he  should  set  out  after  the  guards  himself. 
Perhaps  he  would  find  them  at  Thingvellir,  perhaps  he  would  cross 
them  on  the  desert,  but  at  least  he  would  overtake  them  before  they 
took  boat  at  Husavik.  Twelve  hours  a  day  he  would  ride,  old  as  he 
was,  if  only  these  skulking  Iceland  giants  could  be  made  to  ride 
after  him. 

Thus  were  four  several  companies  at  the  same  time  on  their 
way  to  Grimsey:  the  English  man-of-war  from  Spithead  to  take 
possession  of  the  Danish  sloop;  the  guards  of  the  Governor  to 
order  the  execution  of  Michael  Sunlocks;  Jorgen  Jorgensen  to 
countermand  the  order;  and  Red  Jason  on  his  own  errand  known 
to  no  man. 

The  first  to  reach  was  Jas«n. 


When  Jason  set  little  Michael  from  his  knee  to  the  floor,  and 
rose  to  his  feet  as  Greeba  entered,  he  was  dirty,  bedraggled,  and 
unkempt;  his  face  was  jaded  and  old-looking,  his  skin  shoes  were 
splashed  with  snow,  and  torn,  and  his  feet  were  bleeding ;  his  neck 


312  THE   BONDMAN 

was  bare,  and  his  sheepskin  coat  was  hanging  to  his  back  only  by 
the  woolen  scarf  that  was  tied  about  his  waist.  Partly  from  shock 
at  this  change,  and  partly  from  a  confused  memory  of  other  scenes 
— the  marriage  festival  at  Government  House,  the  night  trial  in 
the  little  chamber  of  the  Senate,  the  jail,  the  mines,  and  the  Mount 
of  Laws — Greeba  staggered  at  sight  of  Jason  and  would  have  cried 
aloud  and  fallen.  But  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  in  a  moment, 
and  whispered  her  in  a  low  voice  at  her  ear  to  be  silent,  for  that 
he  had  something  to  say  that  must  be  heard  by  no  one  beside  herself. 

She  recovered  herself  instantly,  drew  back  as  if  his  touch  had 
stung  her,  and  asked  with  a  look  of  dread  if  he  had  known  she  was 
there. 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"Where  have  you  come  from?" 

"Reykjavik." 

She  glanced  down  at  his  bleeding  feet,  and  said,  "On  foot?" 

"On  foot,"  he  answered. 

"When  did  you  leave  ?" 

"Five  days  ago." 

"Then  you  have  walked  night  and  day  across  the  desert  ?" 

"Night  and  day." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes,  alone." 

She  had  become  more  eager  at  every  question,  and  now  she 
cried,  "What  has  happened?  What  is  going  to  happen?  Do  not 
keep  it  from  me.  I  can  hear  it,  for  I  have  borne  many  things. 
Tell  me  why  have  you  come?" 

"To  save  your  husband,"  said  Jason.    "Hush !    Listen !" 

And  then  he  told  her,  with  many  gentle  protests  against  her 
ghastly  looks  of  fear,  of  the  guards  that  were  coming  with  the 
order  for  the  execution  of  Michael  Sunlocks.  Hearing  that,  she 
waited  for  no  more,  but  fell  to  a  great  outburst  of  weeping.  And 
until  her  bout  was  spent  he  stood  silent  and  helpless  beside  her, 
with  a  strong  man's  pains  at  sight  of  a  woman's  tears. 

"How  she  loves  him!"  he  thought,  and  again  and  again  the 
word  rang  in  the  empty  place  of  his  heart. 

But  when  she  had  recovered  herself  he  smiled  as  well  as  he  was 
able  for  the  great  drops  that  still  rolled  down  his  own  haggard 
face,  and  protested  once  more  that  there  was  nothing  to  fear,  for 
he  himself  had  come  to  forestall  the  danger,  and  things  were  not 
yet  so  far  past  help  but  there  was  still  a  way  to  compass  it. 

"What  way?"  she  aeked. 

The  way  of  escape,"  he  answered. 


THE   BONDMAN  313 

"Impossible,"  she  said.  There  is  a  warship  outside,  and  every 
path  to  the  shore  is  watched." 

He  laughed  at  that,  and  said  that  if  every  goat  track  were 
guarded,  yet  would  he  make  his  way  to  the  sea.  And  as  for  the 
warship  outside,  there  was  a  boat  within  the  harbor,  the  same  that 
he  had  come  by,  a  Shetland  smack  that  had  made  pretense  to  put 
in  for  haddock,  and  would  sail  at  any  moment  that  he  gave  it 
warning. 

She  listened  eagerly,  and,  though  she  saw  but  little  likelihood  of 
escape,  she  clutched  at  the  chance  of  it. 

"When  will  you  make  the  attempt?"  she  asked. 

"Two  hours  before  dawn  to-morrow,"  he  answered. 

"Why  so  late?" 

"Because  the  nights  are  moonlight." 

"I'll  be  ready,"  she  whispered. 

"Make  the  child  ready  also,"  he  said. 

"Indeed,  yes,"  she  whispered. 

"Say  nothing  to  any  one,  and  if  any  one  questions  you,  answer 
as  little  as  you  may.  Whatever  you  hear,  whatever  you  see,  what- 
ever I  may  do  or  pretend  to  do,  speak  not  a  word,  give  not  a  sign, 
change  not  a  feature.  Do  you  promise  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  "yes,  yes." 

And  then  suddenly  a  new  thought  smote  her. 

"But,  Jason,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  aside,  and  her  fingers  run- 
ning through  the  hair  of  little  Michael,  "but,  Jason,"  she  faltered, 
"you  will  not  betray  me?" 

"Betray  you  ?"  he  said,  and  laughed  a  little. 

"Because,"  she  added  quietly,  "though  I  am  here,  my  husband 
does  not  know  me  for  his  wife.  He  is  blind,  and  can  not  see  me, 
and  for  my  own  reasons  I  have  never  spoken  to  him  since  I  came." 

"You  have  never  spoken  to  him?"  said  Jason. 

"Never." 

"And  how  long  have  you  lived  in  this  house  ?" 

"Two  years." 

Then  Jason  remembered  what  Sunlocks  had  told  him  at  the 
mines,  and  in  another  moment  he  had  read  Greeba's  secret  by  the 
light  of  his  own. 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  sadly,  "I  think  I  understand." 
"*  She  caught  the  look  of  sorrow  in  his  eyes,  and  said,  "But,  Jason, 
what  of  yourself?" 

At  that  he  laughed  again,  and  tried  to  carry  himself  off  with 
a  brave  gaiety. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?"  she  asked. 

14  Vol.  II. 


314 


THE   BONDMAN 


"At  Akuyeri,  Husavik,  Reykjavik,  the  desert — everywhere,  no- 
where," he  answered. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Drinking,  gaming,  going  to  the  devil — everything,  nothing." 

And  at  that  he  laughed  once  more,  loudly  and  noisily,  forget- 
ting his  own  warning. 

"Jason,"  said  Greeba,  "I  wronged  you  once,  and  you  have  done 
nothing  since  but  heap  coals  of  fire  on  my  head." 

"No,  no ;  you  never  wronged  me,"  he  said.  "I  was  a  fool — that 
was  all.  I  made  myself  think  that  I  cared  for  you.  But  it's  all 
over  now." 

"Jason,"  she  said  again,  "it  was  not  altogether  my  fault.  My 
husband  was  everything  to  me;  but  another  woman  might  have 
loved  you  and  made  you  happy." 

"Ay,  ay,"  he  said,  "another  woman,  another  woman." 

"Somewhere  or  other  she  waits  for  you,"  said  Greeba.  "Depend 
on  that." 

"Ay,  somewhere  or  other,"  he  said. 

"So  don't  lose  heart,  Jason,"  she  said ;  "don't  lose  heart." 

"I  don't,"  he  said,  "not  I;"  and  yet  again  he  laughed.  But, 
growing  serious  in  a  moment,  he  said,  "And  did  you  leave  home  and 
kindred  and  come  out  to  this  desolate  place  only  that  you  might 
live  under  the  same  roof  with  your  husband  ?" 

"My  home  was  his  home,"  said  Greeba,  "my  kindred  his  kin- 
dred, and  where  he  was  there  had  I  to  be." 

"And  have  you  waited  through  these  two  long  years,"  he  said, 
"for  the  day  and  the  hour  when  you  might  reveal  yourself  to  him  ?" 

"I  could  have  waited  for  my  husband,"  said  Greeba,  "through 
twice  the  seven  long  years  that  Jacob  waited  for  Rachel." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "No,  no,  I  don't  lost  heart. 
Somewhere  or  other,  somewhere  or  other — that's  the  way  of  it." 
Then  he  laughed  louder  than  ever,  and  every  hollow  note  of  his 
voice  went  through  Greeba  like  a  knife.  But  in  the  empty  cham- 
ber of  his  heart  he  was  crying  in  his  despair,  "My  God !  how  she 
loves  him !  How  she  loves  him !" 


Half-an-hour  later,  when  the  winter's  day  was  done,  and  the 
candles  had  been  lighted,  Greeba  went  in  to  the  priest,  where  he 
sat  in  his  room  alone,  to  say  that  a  stranger  was  asking  to  see  him. 

"Bring  the  stranger  in,"  said  the  priest,  putting  down  his  spec- 
tacles on  his  open  book,  and  then  Jason  entered. 


THE   BONDMAN  315 

"Sir  Sigfus,"  said  Jason,  "your  good  name  has  been  known  to 
me  ever  since  the  days  when  my  poor  mother  mentioned  it  with 
gratitude  and  tears." 

"Your  mother?"  said  the  priest;  "who  was  she?" 

"Rachel  Jorgensen's  daughter,  wife  of  Stephen  Orry." 

"Then  you  must  be  Jason." 

"Yes,  your  reverence." 

"My  lad,  my  good  lad,"  cried  the  priest,  and  with  a  look  of  joy 
he  rose  and  laid  hold  of  both  Jason's  hands.  "I  have  heard  of 
you.  I  hear  of  you  every  day,  for  your  brother  is  with  me.  Come, 
let  us  go  to  him.  Let  us  go  to  him.  Come !" 

"Wait,"  said  Jason.  "First  let  me  deliver  you  a  message  con- 
cerning him." 

The  old  priest's  radiant  face  fell  instantly  to  a  deep  sadness. 
"A  message?"  he  said.  "You  have  never  come  from  Jorgen 
Jorgensen  ?" 

"No." 

"From  whom,  then?" 

"My  brother's  wife,"  said  Jason. 

"His  wife?" 

"Has  he  never  spoken  of  her?" 

"Yes,  but  as  one  who  had  injured  him,  and  bitterly  and  cruelly 
wronged  and  betrayed  him." 

"That  may  be  so,  your  reverence,"  said  Jason,  "but  who  can  be 
hard  on  the  penitent  and  the  dying?" 

"Is  she  dying?"  said  the  priest. 

Jason  dropped  his  head.  "She  sends  for  his  forgiveness,"  he 
said.  "She  can  not  die  without  it." 

"Poor  soul,  poor  soul!"  said  the  priest. 

"Whatever  her  faults,  he  can  not  deny  her  that  little  mercy," 
said  Jason. 

"God  forbid  it !"  said  the  priest. 

"She  is  alone  in  her  misery,  with  none  to  help  and  none  to 
pity  her,"  said  Jason. 

"Where  is  she  ?"  said  the  priest. 

"At  Husavik,"  said  Jason. 

"But  what  is  her  message  to  me?" 

"That  you  should  allow  her  husband  to  come  to  her." 

The  old  priest  lifted  his  hands  in  helpless  bewilderment,  but 
Jason  gave  him  no  time  to  speak. 

"Only  for  a  day,"  said  Jason,  quickly,  "only  for  one  day,  an 
hour,  one  little  hour.  Wait,  your  reverence,  do  not  say  no.  Think, 
only  think !  The  poor  woman  is  alone.  Let  her  sins  be  wHat  they 


3i6  THE    BONDMAN 

may,  she  is  penitent.  She  is  calling  for  her  husband.  She  is  call- 
ing on  you  to  send  him.  It  is  her  last  request — her  last  prayer. 
Grant  it,  and  Heaven  will  bless  you." 

The  poor  old  priest  was  cruelly  distressed. 

"My  good  lad,"  he  cried,  "it  is  impossible.  There  is  a  ship 
outside  to  watch  us.  Twice  a  day  I  have  to  signal  with  the  flag 
that  the  prisoner  is  safe,  and  twice  a  day  the  bell  of  the  vessel 
answers  me.  It  is  impossible,  I  say,  impossible,  impossible !  It 
can  not  be  done.  There  is  no  way." 

"Leave  it  to  me,  and  I  will  find  a  way,"  said  Jason. 

But  the  old  priest  only  wrung  his  hands,  and  cried,  "I  dare  not ; 
I  must  not;  it  is  more  than  my  place  is  worth." 

"He  will  come  back,"  said  Jason. 

"Only  last  week,"  said  the  priest.  "I  had  a  message  from 
Reykjavik  which  foreshadowed  his  death.  He  knows  it,  we  all 
know  it." 

"But  he  will  come  back,"  said  Jason,  again. 

"My  good  lad,  how  can  you  say  so?  Where  have  you  lived 
to  think  it  possible?  Once  free  of  the  place  where  the  shadow  of 
death  hangs  over  him,  what  man  alive  would  return  to  it  ?" 

"He  will  come  back,"  said  Jason  firmly;  "I  know  he  will,  I 
swear  he  will." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  old  man.  "I'm  only  a  simple  old  priest, 
buried  alive  these  thirty  years,  or  nearly,  on  this  lonely  island  of 
the  frozen  seas,  but  I  know  better  than  that.  It  isn't  in  human 
nature,  my  good  lad,  and  no  man  that  breathes  can  do  it.  Then 
think  of  me,  think  of  me !" 

"I  do  think  of  you,"  said  Jason,  "and  to  show  you  how  sure  I 
am  that  he  will  come  back,  I  will  make  you  an  offer." 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  priest. 

"To  stand  as  your  bondman  while  he  is  away,"  said  Jason. 

"What !    Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying,"  cried  the  priest. 

"Yes,"  said  Jason,  "for  I  came  to  say  it." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  the  priest,  "that  any  day,  at  any  hour,  the 
sailors  from  yonder  ship  may  come  to  execute  my  poor  prisoner?" 

"I  do.  But  what  of  that?"  said  Jason.  "Have  they  ever  been 
here  before?" 

"Never,"  said  the  priest. 

"Do  they  know  your  prisoner  from  another  man?" 

"No." 

"Then  where  is  your  risk?"  said  Jason. 

"My  risk?  Mine?"  cried  the  priest,  with  the  great  drops  burst- 
ing from  his  eyes,  "I  was  thinking  of  yours.  My  lad,  my  good 


THE   BONDMAN  317 

lad,  you  have  made  me  ashamed.     If  you  dare  risk  your  life,  I 
dare  risk  my  place,  and  I'll  do  it ;  I'll  do  it." 

"God  bless  you!"  said  Jason. 

"And  now  let  us  go  to  him,"  said  the  priest.  "He  is  in  yonder 
room,  poor  soul.  When  the  order  came  from  Reykjavik  that  I 
was  to  keep  close  guard  and  watch  on  him,  nothing  would  satisfy 
him  but  that  I  should  turn  the  key  on  him.  That  was  out  of 
fear  of  me.  He  is  as  brave  as  a  lion,  and  as  a  gentle  as  a  lamb. 
Come,  the  sooner  he  hears  his  wife's  message  the  better  for  all 
of  us.  It  will  be  a  sad  blow  to  him,  badly  as  she  treated  him.  But 
come !" 

So  saying,  the  old  priest  was  fumbling  his  deep  pockets  for  a 
key,  and  shuffling  along,  candle  in  hand,  toward  a  door  at  the  end 
of  a  low  passage,  when  Jason  laid  hold  of  his  arm  and  said  in  a 
whisper,  "Wait !"  It  isn't  fair  that  I  should  let  you  go  farther  in 
this  matter.  You  should  be  ignorant  of  what  we  are  doing  until 
it  is  done." 

"As  you  will,"  said  the  priest. 
•  "Can  you  trust  me?"  said  Jason. 

"That  I  can." 

"Then  give  me  the  key." 

The  old  man  gave  it. 

"When  do  you  make  your  next  signal?" 

"At  daybreak  to-morrow." 

"And  when  does  the  bell  on  the  ship  answer  it?" 

"Immediately." 

"Go  to  your  room,  your  reverence,"  said  Jason,  "and  never  stir 
out  of  it  until  you  hear  the  ship's  bell  in  the  morning.  Then  come 
here,  and  you  will  find  me  waiting  on  this  spot  to  return  this  key  to 
you.  But  first  answer  me  again,  Do  you  trust  me?" 

"I  do,"  said  the  old  priest. 

"You  believe  I  will  keep  to  my  bargain,  come  what  may?" 

"I  believe  you  will  keep  to  it." 

"And  so  I  will,  as  sure  as  God's  above  me." 


Jason  opened  the  door  and  entered  the  room.  It  was  quite 
dark,  save  for  a  dull  red  fire  of  dry  moss  that  burned  on  the  hearth 
in  one  corner.  By  this  little  fire  Michael  Sunlocks  sat,  with  only 
his  sad  face  visible  in  the  gloom.  His  long  thin  hands  were  clasped 
about  one  knee  which  was  half-raised;  his  noble  head  was  held 
down,  and  his  flaxen  hair  fell  across  his  clieeks  to  his  shoulders. 


318  THE   BONDMAN 

He  had  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock,  and  said  quietly :  "Is  that 
you,  Sir  Sigfus  ?" 

"No,"  said  Jason. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"A  friend,"  said  Jason. 

Sunlocks  twisted  about  as  though  his  blind  eyes  could  see. 
"Whose  voice  was  that?"  he  said,  with  a  tremor  in  his  own. 

"A  brother's,"  said  Jason. 

Sunlocks  rose  to  his  feet.     "Jason?"  he  cried. 

"Yea;  Jason." 

"Come  to  me !  Come !  Where  are  you  ?  Let  me  touch  you," 
cried  Sunlocks,  stretching  out  both  his  hands. 

Then  they  fell  into  each  other's  arms,  and  laughed  and  wept 
for  joy.  After  a  while  Jason  said : 

"Sunlocks,  I  have  brought  you  a  message." 

"Not  from  her,  Jason? — no." 

"No,  not  from  her — from  dear  old  Adam  Fairbrother,"  said 
Jason. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"At  Husavik." 

"Why  did  you  not  bring  him  with  you  ?" 

"He   could   not   come." 

"Jason,  is  he  ill?" 

"He  has  crossed  the  desert  to  see  you,  but  he  can  go  no  further." 

"Jason,  tell  me,  is  he  dying?" 

"The  good  old  man  is  calling  on  you  night  and  day,  'Sunlocks !' 
he  is  crying.  'Sunlocks !  my  boy,  my  son.  Sunlocks  !  Sunlocks  !'  " 

"My  dear  father,  my  other  father,  God  bless  him!" 

"He  says  he  has  crossed  the  seas  to  find  you,  and  can  not  die 
without  seeing  you  again.  And  though  he  knows  you  are  here, 
yet  in  his  pain  and  trouble  he  forgets  it,  and  cries,  'Come  to  me,  my 
son,  my  Sunlocks.' " 

"Now,  this  is  the  hardest  lot  of  all,"  said  Sunlocks,  and  he  cast 
himself  down  on  his  chair.  "Oh,  these  blind  eyes !  Oh,  this  cruel 
prison !  Oh,  for  one  day  of  freedom !  Only  one  day,  one  poor 
simple  day!" 

And  so  he  wept,  and  bemoaned  his  bitter  fate. 

Jason  stood  over  him  with  many  pains  and  misgivings  at  sight 
of  the  distress  he  had  created.  And  if  the  eye  of  Heaven  saw  Jason 
there,  surely  the  suffering  in  his  face  atoned  for  the  lie  on  his 
tongue. 

"Hush,  Sunlocks,  hush!"  he  said,  in  a  tremulous  whisper. 
"You  can  have  the  day  you  wish  for ;  and  if  you  can  not  see,  there 


THE   BONDMAN  319 

are  others  to  lead  you.  Yes,  it  is  true,  it  is  true,  for  I  have  settled 
it.  It  is  all  arranged,  and  you  are  to  leave  this  place  to-morrow." 

Hearing  this,  Michael  Sunlocks  made  first  a  cry  of  delight,  and 
then  said  after  a  moment,  "But  what  of  this  poor  old  priest?" 

"He  is  a  good  man,  and  willing  to  let  you  go,"  said  Jason. 

"But  he  has  had  warning  that  I  may  be  wanted  at  any  time," 
said  Sunlocks,  "and  though  his  house  is  a  prison,  he  has  made  it  a 
home,  and  I  would  not  do  him  a  wrong  to  save  my  life." 

"He  knows  that,"  said  Jason,  and  he  says  that  you  will  come 
back  to  him  though  death  itself  should  be  waiting  to  receive  you." 

"He  is  right,"  said  Sunlocks ;  "and  no  disaster  save  this  one 
could  take  me  from  him  to  his  peril.  The  good  old  soul !  Come, 
let  me  thank  him."  And  with  that  he  was  making  for  the  door. 

But  Jason  stepped  between,  and  said,  "Nay,  it  isn't  fair  to  the 
good  priest  that  we  should  make  him  a  party  to  our  enterprise.  I 
have  told  him  all  that  he  need  know,  and  he  is  content.  Now,  let 
him  be  ignorant  of  what  we  are  doing  until  it  is  done.  Then  if 
anything  happens  it  will  appear  that  you  have  escaped." 

"But  I  am  coming  back,"  said  Sunlocks. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Jason,  "but  listen.  To-morrow  morning,  two 
hours  before  daybreak,  you  will  go  down  to  the  bay.  There  is  a 
small  boat  lying  by  the  little  jetty,  and  a  fishing  smack  at  anchor 
about  a  biscuit-throw  farther  out.  The  good  woman  who  is  house- 
keeper here  will  lead  you — " 

"Why  she?"  interrupted  Sunlocks. 

Jason  paused,  and  said :  "Have  you  anything  against  her  ?" 

"No  indeed,"  said  Sunlocks.  "A  good,  true  woman.  One  who 
lately  lost  her  husband,  and  at  the  same  time  all  the  cheer  and  hope 
of  life.  Simple  and  sweet,  and  silent,  and  with  a  voice  that  recalls 
another  who  was  once  very  near  and  dear  to  me." 

"Is  she  not  so  still?"  said  Jason. 

"God  knows.  I  scarce  can  tell.  Sometimes  I  think  she  is 
'dearer  to  me  than  ever,  and  now  that  I  am  blind  I  seem  to  see  her 
near  me  always.  It  is  only  a  dream,  a  foolish  dream." 

"But  what  if  the  dream  came  true?"  said  Jason. 

"That  can  not  be,"  said  Sunlocks.  "Yet  where  is  she?  What 
has  become  of  her?  Is  she  with  her  father?  What  is  she  doing?" 

"You  shall  soon  know  now,"  said  Jason.  "Only  ask  to-morrow 
and  this  good  woman  will  take  you  to  her." 

"But  why  not  you  yourself,  Jason?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"Because  I  am  to  stay  here  until  you  return,"  said  Jason. 

"What  ?"  cried  Sunlocks.    "You  are  to  stay  here  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jason. 


320  THE   BONDMAN 

"As  bondman  to  the  law  instead  of  me  ?  Is  that  it  ?  Speak !" 
cried  Sunlocks. 

"And  why  not  ?"  said  Jason,  calmly. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Sunlocks  felt  about  with 
his  helpless  hands  until  he  touched  Jason  and  then  he  fell  sobbing 
upon  his  neck. 

"Jason,  Jason,"  he  cried,  "this  is  more  than  a  brother's  love. 
Ah,  you  do  not  know  the  risk  you  would  run;  but  I  know  it,  and 
I  must  not  keep  it  from  you.  Any  day,  any  hour,  a  despatch  may 
come  to  the  ship  outside  to  order  that  I  should  be  shot.  Suppose 
I  were  to  go  to  the  dear  soul  who  calls  for  me,  and  the  despatch 
came  in  my  absence — where  would  you  be  then  ?" 

"I  should  be  here,"  said  Jason,  simply. 

"My  lad,  my  brave  lad,"  crid  Sunlocks,  "what  are  you  saying? 
If  you  can  not  think  for  yourself,  then  think  for  me.  If  what  I 
have  said  were  to  occur,  should  I  ever  know  another  moment's  hap- 
piness? No,  never,  never,  though  I  regained  my  sight,  as  they  say 
I  may,  and  my  place  and  my  friends — all  save  one — and  lived  a 
hundred  years." 

Jason  started  at  that  thought,  but  there  was  no  one  to  look 
upon  his  face  under  the  force  of  it,  and  he  wriggled  with  it  and 
threw  it  off. 

"But  you  will  come  back,"  he  said.  "If  the  despatch  comes 
while  you  are  away,  I  will  say  that  you  are  coming,  and  you  will 
come." 

"I  may  never  come  back,"  said  Sunlocks.  "Only  think,  my  lad. 
This  is  winter,  and  we  are  on  the  verge  of  the  Arctic  seas,  with 
five-and-thirty  miles  of  water  dividing  us  from  the  mainland.  He 
would  be  a  bold  man  who  would  count  for  a  day  on  weather  in 
which  a  little  fishing  smack  could  live.  And  a  storm  might  come 
up  and  keep  me  back." 

"The  same  storm  that  would  keep  you  back,"  said  Jason,  "would 
keep  back  the  despatch.  But  why  hunt  after  these  chances  ?  Have 
you  any  reason  to  fear  that  the  despatch  will  come  to-day,  or  to- 
morrow, or  the  next  day?  No,  you  have  none.  Then  go,  and  for 
form's  sake — just  that,  no  more,  no  less — let  me  wait  here  until 
you  return." 

There  was  another  moment's  silence,  and  then  Sunlocks  said, 
"Is  that  the  condition  of  my  going?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jason. 

"Did  this  old  priest  impose  it?"  asked  Sunlocks. 

Jason  hesitated  a  moment,  and  answered,  "Yes." 

"Then  I  won't  go,"  said  Sunlocks,  stoutly. 


THE   BONDMAN  321 

"If  you  don't,"  said  Jason,  "you  will  break  poor  old  Adam's 
heart,  for  I  myself  will  tell  him  that  you  might  have  come  to  him, 
and  would  not." 

"Will  you  tell  him  why  I  would  not  ?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"No,"  said  Jason. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Jason  said,  very  tenderly,  "Will 
you  go,  Sunlocks?' 

And  Sunlocks  answered,  "Yes." 


Jason  slept  on  the  form  over  against  the  narrow  wooden  bed  of 
Michael  Sunlocks.  He  lay  down  at  midnight,  and  awoke  four  hours 
later.  Then  he  stepped  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  The  night 
was  calm  and  beautiful ;  the  moon  was  shining,  and  the  little  world 
of  Grimsey  slept  white  and  quiet  under  its  coverlet  of  snow.  Snow 
on  the  roof,  snow  in  the  valley,  snow  on  the  mountains  so  clear 
against  the  sky  and  stars;  no  wind,  no  breeze,  no  sound  on  earth 
and  in  air  save  the  steady  chime  of  the  sea  below. 

It  was  too  early  yet,  and  Jason  went  back  into  the  house.  He 
did  not  lie  down  again  lest  he  should  oversleep  himself,  but  sat  on 
his  form  and  waited.  All  was  silent  in  the  home  of  the  priest. 
Jason  could  hear  nothing  but  the  steady  breathing  of  Sunlocks  as 
he  slept. 

After  a  while  it  began  to  snow,  and  then  the  moon  went  out, 
and  the  night  became  very  dark. 

"Now  is  the  time,"  thought  Jason,  and  after  hanging  a  sheepskin 
over  the  little  skin-covered  window,  he  lighted  a  candle  and  awak- 
ened Sunlocks. 

Sunlocks  rose  and  dressed  himself  without  much  speaking,  and 
sometimes  he  sighed  like  a  down-hearted  man.  But  Jason  rattled 
on  with  idle  talk,  and  kindled  a  fire  and  made  some  coffee.  And 
when  this  was  done  he  stumbled  his  way  through  the  long  passages 
of  the  Iceland  house  until  he  came  upon  Greeba's  room,  and  there 
he  knocked  softly,  and  she  answered  him. 

She  was  ready,  for  she  had  not  been  to  bed,  and  about  her 
shoulders  and  across  her  breast  was  a  sling  of  sheepskin,  wherein 
she  meant  to  carry  her  little  Michael  as  he  slept. 

"All  is  ready,"  he  whispered.  "He  says  he  may  recover  his 
sight.  Can  it  be  true  ?" 

"Yes,  the  apothecary  from  Husavik  said  so,"  she  answered. 

"Then  have  no  fear.  Tell  him  who  you  are,  for  he  loves  you 
still." 


322 


THE   BONDMAN 


And,  hearing  that,  Greeba  began  to  cry  for  joy,  and  to  thank 
God  that  the  days  of  her  waiting  were  over  at  last 

"Two  years  I  have  lived  alone,"  she  said,  "in  the  solitude  of 
a  loveless  life  and  the  death  of  a  heartless  home.  My  love  has  been 
silent  all  this  weary,  weary  time,  but  it  is  to  be  silent  no  longer. 
At  last !  At  last !  My  hour  has  come  at  last !  My  husband  will 
forgive  me  for  the  deception  I  have  practised  upon  him.  How  can 
he  hate  me  for  loving  him  to  all  lengths  and  ends  of  love  ?  Oh,  that 
the  blessed  spirit  that  counts  the  throbbings  of  the  heart  would  but 
count  my  life  from  to-day — to-day,  to-day,  to-day — wiping  out  all 
that  is  past,  and  leaving  only  the  white  page  of  what  is  to  come." 

Then  from  crying  she  fell  to  laughing,  as  softly  and  as  gently, 
as  if  her  heart  grudged  her  voice  the  joy  of  it.  She  was  like  a 
child  who  is  to  wear  a  new  feather  on  the  morrow,  and  is  counting 
the  minutes  until  that  morrow  comes,  too  impatient  to  rest,  and 
afraid  to  sleep  lest  she  should  awake  too  late.  And  Jason  stood 
aside  and  heard  both  her  weeping  and  her  laughter. 

He  went  back  to  Sunlocks,  and  found  him  yet  more  sad  than 
before. 

"Only  to  think,"  said  Sunlocks,  "that  you,  whom  I  thought  my 
worst  enemy,  you  that  once  followed  me  to  slay  me,  should  be  the 
man  of  all  men  to  risk  your  life  for  me." 

"Yes,  life  is  a  fine  lottery,  isn't  it?"  said  Jason,  and  he  laughed. 

"How  the  Almighty  God  tears  our  little  passions  to  tatters," 
said  Sunlocks,  "and  works  His  own  ends  in  spite  of  them." 

When  all  was  ready,  Jason  blew  out  the  candle,  and  led  Sun- 
locks  to  the  porch.  Greeba  was  there,  with  little  Michael  breathing 
softly  from  the  sling  at  her  breast. 

Jason  opened  the  door.  "It's  very  dark,"  he  whispered,  "and 
it  is  still  two  hours  before  the  dawn.  Sunlocks,  if  you  had  your 
sight  already,  you  could  not  see  one  step  before  you.  So  give  your 
hand  to  this  good  woman,  and  whatever  happens  hereafter  never, 
never  let  it  go." 

And  with  that  he  joined  their  hands. 

"Does  she  know  my  way  ?"  said  Sunlocks. 

"She  knows  the  way  for  both  of  you,"  said  Jason.  "And  now 
go.  Down  at  the  jetty  you  will  find  two  men  waiting  for  you. 
Stop  !  Have  you  any  money  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Greeba. 

"Give  some  to  the  men,"  said  Jason.  "Good-by.  I  promised 
them  a  hundred  kroner.  Good-by !  Tell  them  to  drop  down  the 
bay  as  silently  as  they  can.  Good-by!" 

"Good-by !' 


THE   BONDMAN  323 

"Come,"  said  Greeba,  and  she  drew  at  the  hand  of  Sunlocks. 

"Good-by  !     Good-by  !"  said  Jason. 

But  Sunlocks  held  back  a  moment,  and  then  in  a  voice  that 
faltered  and  broke  he  said,  "Jason— kiss  me." 

At  the  next  moment  they  were  gone  into  the  darkness  and  the 
falling  snow — Sunlocks  and  Greeba,  hand  in  hand,  and  their  child 
asleep  at  its  mother's  bosom. 

Jason  stood  a  long  hour  at  the  open  door,  and  listened.  He 
heard  the  footsteps  die  away;  he  heard  the  creak  of  the  crazy 
wooden  jetty;  he  heard  the  light  plash  of  the  oars  as  the  boat 
moved  off ;  he  heard  the  clank  of  the  chain  as  the  anchor  was  lifted ; 
he  heard  the  oars  again  as  the  little  smack  moved  down  the  bay, 
and  not  another  sound  came  to  his  ear  through  the  silence  of  the 
night. 

He  looked  across  the  headland  to  where  the  sloop-of-war  lay 
outside,  and  he  saw  her  lights,  and  their  two  white  waterways,  like 
pillars  of  silver,  over  the  sea.  All  was  quiet  about  her. 

Still  he  stood  and  listened  until  the  last  faint  sound  of  the  oars 
had  gone.  By  this  time  a  wooly  light  had  begun  to  creep  over  the 
mountain  tops,  and  a  light  breeze  came  down  from  them. 

"It  is  the  dawn,"  thought  Jason.    "They  are  safe." 

He  went  back  into  the  house,  pulled  down  the  sheepskin  from 
the  window,  and  lighted  the  candle  again.  After  a  search  he  found 
paper  and  pens  and  wax  in  a  cupboard  and  sat  down  to  write.  His 
hand  was  hard,  he  had  never  been  to  school,  and  he  could  barely 
form  the  letters  and  spell  the  words.  This  was  what  he  wrote : 

"Whatever  you  hear,  fear  not  for  me.  I  have  escaped,  and  am 
safe.  But  don't  expect  to  see  me.  I  can  never  rejoin  you,  for  I 
dare  not  be  seen.  And  you  are  going  back  to  your  beautiful  island, 
but  dear  old  Iceland  is  the  only  place  for  me.  Greeba,  good-by;  I 
shall  never  lose  heart.  Sunlocks,  she  has  loved  you,  you  only,  all 
the  days  of  her  life.  Good-by.  I  am  well  and  happy.  God  bless 
you  both." 

Having  written  and  sealed  this  letter,  he  marked  it  with  a 
cross  for  superscription,  touched  it  with  his  lips,  laid  it  back  on  the 
table,  and  put  a  key  on  top  of  it.  Then  he  rested  his  head  on  his 
hands,  and  for  some  minutes  afterward  he  was  lost  to  himself  in 
thought.  "They  would  tell  him  to  lie  down,"  he  thought,  "and  now 
he  must  sleep.  When  he  awakes  he  will  be  out  at  sea,  far  out, 
and  all  sail  set.  Before  long  he  will  find  that  he  has  been  betrayed, 
and  demand  to  be  brought  back.  But  they  will  not  heed  his  anger, 
for  she  will  have  talked  with  them.  Next  week  or  the  week  after 
they  will  put  in  at  the  Shetlands,  and  there  he  will  get  my  letter. 


324  THE   BONDMAN 

Then  his  face  will  brighten  with  joy,  and  he  will  cry:  "To  home! 
To  home!"  And  then — even  then — why  not? — his  sight  will  come 
back  to  him,  and  he  will  open  his  ejyes  and  find  his  dream  come  true, 
and  her  own  dear  face  looking  up  at  him.  At  that  he  will  cry, 
'Greeba,  Greeba,  my  Greeba,'  and  she  will  fall  into  his  arms  and 
he  will  pluck  her  to  his  breast.  Then  the  wind  will  come  sweeping 
down  from  trie  North  Sea,  and  belly  out  the  sail  until  it  sings  and 
the  ropes  crack  and  the  blocks  creak.  And  the  good  ship  will  fly 
along  the  waters  like  a  bird  to  the  home  of  the  sun.  Home ! 
Home !  England !  England,  and  the  little  green  island  of  her  sea !" 
"God  bless  them  both,"  he  said  aloud,  in  a  voice  like  a  sob,  but 
he  leaped  to  his  feet,  unable  to  bear  the  flow  of  his  thoughts.  He 
put  back  the  paper  and  pens  into  the  cupboard,  and  while  he  was 
doing  so  he  came  upon  a  bottle  of  brenni-vin.  He  took  it  out  and 
laughed,  and  drew  the  cork  to  take  a  draught.  But  he  put  it  down 
on  the  table  untouched.  "Not  yet,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  then  he 
stepped  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

The  snow  had  ceased  to  fall  and  the  day  was  breaking.  Great 
shivering  waifs  of  vapor  crept  along  the  mountain  sides,  and  the 
valley  was  veiled  in  mist.  But  the  sea  was  clear  and  peaceful,  and 
the  sloop-of-war  lay  on  its  dark  bosom  as  before. 

"Now  for  the  signal,"  thought  Jason. 

In  less  than  a  minute  afterward  the  flag  was  floating  from  the 
flag-staff,  and  Jason  stood  waiting  for  the  ship's  answer.  It  came 
in  due  course,  a  clear-toned  bell  that  rang  out  over  the  quiet  waters 
and  echoed  across  the  land. 

"It's  done,"  thought  Jason,  and  he  went  back  into  the  house. 
Lifting  up  the  brenni-vin,  he  took  a  long  draft  of  it,  and  laughed 
as  he  did  so.  Then  a  longer  draft,  and  laughed  yet  louder.  Still 
another  draft,  and  another,  and  another,  until  the  bottle  was 
emptied,  and  he  flung  it  on  the  floor. 

After  that  he  picked  up  the  key  and  the  letter,  and  shambled  out 
into  the  passage,  laughing  as  he  went. 

"Where  are  you  now,  old  mole?"  he  shouted,  and  again  he 
shouted,  until  the  little  house  rang  with  his  thick  voice  and  his 
peals  of  wild  laughter. 

The  old  priest  came  out  of  his  room  in  his  nightshirt  with  a 
lighted  candle  in  his  hand. 

"God  bless  me,  what's  this  ?"  said  the  old  man. 

"What's  this?  Why,  your  bondman,  your  bondman,  and  the 
key,  the  key,"  shouted  Jason,  and  he  laughed  once  more.  "Did 
you  think  you  would  never  see  it  again?  Did  you  think  I  would 
run  away  and  leave  you?  Not  I,  old  mole,  not  I." 


THE   BONDMAN  325 

"Has  he  gone?"  said  the  priest,  glancing  fearfully  into  the 
room. 

"Gone?  Why,  yes,  of  course  he  has  gone,"  laughed  Jason. 
"They  have  both  gone." 

"Both !"  said  the  priest,  looking  up  inquiringly,  and  at  sight  of 
his  face  Jason  laughed  louder  than  ever. 

"So  you  didn't  see  it,  old  mole?" 

"See  what?" 

"That  she  was  his  wife." 

"His  wife?    Who?" 

"Why,  your  housekeeper,  as  you  called  her." 

"God  bless  my  soul !    And  when  are  they  coming  back  ?" 

"They  are  never  coming  back." 

"Never?" 

"I  have  taken  care  that  they  never  can." 

"Dear  me!  dear  me!     What  does  it  all  mean?" 

"It  means  that  the  despatch  is  on  its  way  from  Reykjavik,  and 
will  be  here  to-day.  Ha !  ha !  ha !" 

"To-day  ?  God  save  us  !  And  do  you  intend — no,  it  can  not  be — 
and  yet — do  you  intend  to  die  instead  of  him?" 

"Well,  and  what  of  that?  It's  nothing  to  you,  is  it?  And  as 
for  myself,  there  are  old  scores  against  me,  and  if  death  had  not 
come  to  me  soon,  I  should  have  gone  to  it." 

"I'll  not  stand  by  and  witness  it." 

"You  will,  you  shall,  you  must.  And  listen — Here  is  a  letter. 
It  is  for  him.  Address  it  to  her  by  the  first  ship  to  the  Shetlands. 
The  Thora,  Shetlands — that  will  do.  And  now  bring  me  some 
more  of  your  brenni-vin,  you  good  old  soul,  for  I  am  going  to  take 
a  sleep  at  last — a  long  sleep — a  long,  long  sleep  at  last." 

"God  pity  you !     God  help  you !     God  bless  you !" 

"Ay,  ay,  pray  to  your  God.  But  I'll  not  pray  to  him.  He 
doesn't  make  His  world  for  wretches  like  me.  I'm  a  pagan,  am  I  ? 
So  be  it !  Good-night,  you  dear  old  mole !  Good-night !  I'll  keep 
to  my  bargain,  never  fear.  Good-night.  Never  mind  your  brenni- 
vin,  I'll  sleep  without  it.  Good-night!  Good-night!" 

Saying  this,  amid  broken  peals  of  unearthly  laughter,  Jason 
reeled  back  into  the  room,  and  clashed  the  door  after  him.  The  old 
priest,  left  alone  in  the  passage,  dropped  the  foolish  candle,  and 
wrung  his  hands.  Then  he  listened  at  the  door  a  moment.  The 
unearthly  laughter  ceased  and  a  burst  of  weeping  followed  it. 


THE   BONDMAN 


It  was  on  the  day  after  that  the  evil  work  was  done.  The  de- 
spatch had  arrived,  a  day's  warning  had  been  given,  and  four 
sailors,  armed  with  muskets,  had  come  ashore. 

It  was  early  morning,  and  not  a  soul  in  Grimsey  who  had  known 
Michael  Sunlocks  was  there  to  see.  Only  Sir  Sigfus  knew  the 
secret,  and  he  dared  not  speak.  To  save  Jason  from  the  death  that 
waited  for  him  would  be  to  put  himself  in  Jason's  place. 

The  sailors  drew  up  in  a  line  on  a  piece  of  flat  ground  in  front  of 
the  house  whereon  the  snow  was  trodden  hard.  Jason  came  out 
looking  strong  and  content.  His  step  was  firm,  and  his  face  was 
defiant.  Fate  had  dogged  him  all  his  days.  Only  in  one  place,  only 
in  one  hour,  could  he  meet  and  beat  it.  This  was  that  place,  and 
this  was  that  hour.  He  was  solemn  enough  at  last. 

By  his  side  the  old  priest  walked,  with  his  white  head  bent  and 
his  nervous  hands  clasped  together.  He  was  mumbling  the  prayers 
for  the  dying  in  a  voice  that  trembled  and  broke.  The  morning  was 
clear  and  cold,  and  all  the  world  around  was  white  and  peaceful. 

Jason  took  up  his  stand,  and  folded  his  arms  behind  him.  As 
he  did  so  the  sun  broke  through  the  clouds  and  lit  up  his  uplifted 
face  and  his  long  red  hair  like  blood. 

The  sailors  fired  and  he  fell.  He  took  their  shots  into  his  heart, 
the  biggest  heart  for  good  or  ill  that  ever  beat  in  the  breast  of  man. 


Within  an  hour  there  was  a  great  commotion  on  that  quiet 
spot.  Jorgen  Jorgensen  had  come,  but  come  too  late.  One  glance 
told  him  everything.  His  order  had  been  executed,  but  Sunlocks 
was  gone  and  Jason  was  dead.  Where  were  his  miserable  fears 
now?  Where  was  his  petty  hate?  Both  his  enemies  had  escaped 
him,  and  his  little  soul  shriveled  up  at  sight  of  the  wreck  of  their 
mighty  passions. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  asked,  looking  stupidly  around 
him. 

And  the  old  priest,  transformed  in  one  instant  from  the  poor, 
timid  thing  he  had  been,  turned  upon  him  with  the  courage  of 
a  lion. 

"It  means,"  he  said,  face  to  face  with  him,  "that  I  am  a  wretched 
coward  and  you  are  a  damned  tyrant." 

While  they  stood  together  so,  the  report  of  a  cannon  came  from 


THE   BONDMAN  327 

the  bay.  It  was  a  loud  detonation,  that  seemed  to  heave  the  sea 
and  shake  the  island.  Jorgen  knew  what  it  meant.  It  meant  that 
the  English  man-of-war  had  come. 

The  Danish  sloop  struck  her  colors,  and  Adam  Fairbrother  came 
ashore.  He  heard  what  had  happened,  and  gathered  with  the 
others  where  Jason  lay  with  his  calm  face  toward  the  sky.  And 
going  down  on  his  knees  he  whispered  into  the  deaf  ear,  "My 
brave  lad,  your  troubled  life  is  over,  your  stormy  soul  is  in  its  rest. 
Sleep  on,  sleep  well,  sleep  in  peace.  God  will  not  forget  you." 

Then  rising  to  his  feet  he  looked  around  and  said :  "If  any  man 
thinks  that  this  world  is  not  founded  in  justice,  let  him  come  here 
and  see :  There  stands  the  man  who  is  called  the  Governor  of  Ice- 
land, and  here  lies  his  only  kinsman  in  all  the  wide  wilderness  of 
men.  The  one  is  alive,  the  other  is  dead ;  the  one  is  living  in  power 
and  plenty,  the  other  died  like  a  hunted  beast.  But  which  do  you 
choose  to  be:  The  man  who  has  the  world  at  his  feet  or  the  man 
who  lies  at  the  feet  of  the  world?" 

Jorgen  Jorgensen  only  dropped  his  head  while  old  Adam's  lash 
fell  over  him.  And  turning  upon  him  with  heat  of  voice,  old  Adam 
cried,  "Away  with  you!  Go  back  to  the  place  of  your  power. 
There  is  no  one  now  to  take  it  from  you.  But  carry  this  word 
with  you  for  your  warning :  Heap  up  your  gold  like  the  mire  of  the 
streets,  grow  mighty  and  powerful  beyond  any  man  living,  and 
when  all  is  done  you  shall  be  an  execration  and  a  curse  and  a  re- 
proach, and  the  poorest  outcast  on  life's  highway  shall  cry  with  me, 
'Any  fate,  oh,  merciful  heaven,  but  not  that !  not  that !'  Away  with 
you,  away !  Take  your  wicked  feet  away,  for  this  is  holy  ground !" 

And  Jorgen  Jorgensen  turned  about  on  the  instant  and  went  off 
hurriedly,  with  his  face  to  the  earth,  like  a  whipped  dog. 


They  buried  Jason  in  a  piece  of  untouched  ground  over  against 
the  little  wooden  church.  Sir  Sigfus  dug  the  grave  with  his  own 
hands.  It  was  a  bed  of  solid  lava,  and  in  that  pit  of  old  fire  they 
laid  that  young  heart  of  flame.  The  sky  was  blue,  and  the  sun 
shone  on  the  snow  so  white  and  beautiful.  It  had  been  a  dark  mid- 
night when  Jason  came  into  the  world,  but  it  was  a  glorious  morn- 
ing when  he  went  out  of  it. 

The  good  priest  learning  the  truth  from  old  Adam,  that  Jason 
had  loved  Greeba,  bethought  him  of  a  way  to  remember  the  dead 
man's  life  secret  at  the  last.  He  got  twelve  Iceland  maidens  and 
taught  them  an  English  hymn.  They  could  not  understand  the 


.328  THE   BONDMAN 

words  of  it,  but  they  learned  to  sing  them  to  an  English  tune.  And, 
clad  in  white,  they  stood  round  the  grave  of  Jason,  and  sang  these 
words  in  the  tongue  he  loved  the  best : 

"Time,  like  an  ever  rolling  stream, 

Bears  all  its  sons  away; 
They  fly  forgotten,  as  a  dream 
Dies  at  the  opening  day." 

On  the  island  rock  of  old  Grimsey,  close  to  the  margin  of  the 
Arctic  seas,  there  is  a  pyramid  of  lava  blocks,  now  honeycombed 
and  moss-covered,  over  Jason's  rest.  And  to  this  day  the  place  of 
it  is  called  "The  place  of  Red  Jason." 


END  OF  "THE  BONDMAN' 


THE    BLIND    MOTHER 


i 

THE  Vale  of  Newlands  lay  green  in  the  morning  sunlight;  the 
river  that  ran  through  its  lowest  bed  sparkled  with  purple 
and  amber;  the  leaves  prattled  low  in  the  light  breeze  that 
soughed  through  the  rushes  and  the  long  grass ;  the  hills  rose  sheer 
and  white  to  the  smooth  blue  lake  of  the  sky,  where  only  one  fleecy 
cloud  floated  languidly  across  from  peak  to  peak.  Out  of  unseen 
places  came  the  bleating  of  sheep  and  the  rumble  of  distant  cata- 
racts, and  above  the  dull  thud  of  tumbling  waters  far  away  was 
the  thin  caroling  of  birds  overhead. 

But  the  air  was  alive  with  yet  sweeter  sounds.  On  the  breast 
of  the  fell  that  lies  over  against  Cat  Bell  a  procession  of  children 
walked,  and  sang,  and  chattered,  and  laughed.  It  was  St.  Peter's 
Day,  and  they  were  rush-bearing;  little  ones  of  all  ages,  from  the 
comely  girl  of  fourteen,  just  ripening  into  maidenhood,  who  walked 
last,  to  the  sweet  boy  of  four  in  the  pinafore  braided  with  epaulets, 
who  strode  along  gallantly  in  front.  Most  of  the  little  hands 
carried  rushes,  but  some  were  filled  with  ferns,  and  mosses,  and 
flowers.  They  had  assembled  at  the  schoolhouse,  and  now,  on 
their  way  to  the  church,  they  were  making  the  circuit  of  the 
dale. 

They  passed  over  the  road  that  crosses  the  river  at  the  head  of 
Newlands,  and  turned  down  into  the  path  that  follows  the  bed  of 
the  valley.  At  that  angle  there  stands  a  little  group  of  cottages 
deliciously  cool  in  their  whitewash,  nestling  together  under  the 
heavy  purple  crag  from  which  the  waters  of  a  ghyll  fall  into  a  deep 
basin  that  reaches  to  their  walls.  The  last  of  the  group  is  a  cot- 
tage with  its  end  to  the  road,  and  its  open  porch  facing  a  garden 
shaped  like  a  wedge.  As  the  children  passed  this  house  an  old 
man,  gray  and  thin  and  much  bent,  stood  by  the  gate,  leaning  on  a 
staff.  A  collie,  with  the  sheep's  dog  wooden  bar  suspended  from  its 
shaggy  neck,  lay  at  his  feet.  The  hum  of  voices  brought  a  young 
woman  into  the  porch.  She  was  bareheaded  and  wore  a  light  print 
gown.  Her  face  was  pale  and  marked  with  lines.  She  walked 
cautiously,  stretching  one  hand  before  her  with  an  uncertain  mo- 

(329) 


330  THE    BLIND    MOTHER 

tion,  and  grasping  a  trailing  tendril  of  honeysuckle  that  swept 
downward  from  the  roof.  Her  eyes,  which  were  partly  inclined 
upward  and  partly  turned  toward  the  procession,  had  a  vague  light 
in  their  bleached  pupils.  She  was  blind.  At  her  side,  and  tugging 
at  her  other  hand,  was  a  child  of  a  year  and  a  half — a  chubby, 
sunny  little  fellow  with  ruddy  cheeks,  blue  eyes,  and  fair  curly  hair. 
Prattling,  laughing,  singing  snatches,  and  waving  their  rushes  and 
ferns  above  their  happy,  thoughtless  heads,  the  children  rattled 
past.  When  they  were  gone  the  air  was  empty,  as  it  is  when  the 
lark  stops  in  its  song. 

After  the  procession  of  children  had  passed  the  little  cottage 
at  the  angle  of  the  roads,  the  old  man  who  leaned  on  his  staff  at 
the  gate  turned  about  and  stepped  to  the  porch. 

"Did  the  boy  see  them?— did  he  see  the  children?"  said  the 
young  woman  who  held  the  child  by  the  hand. 

"I  mak'  na  doot,"  said  the  old  man. 

He  stooped  to  the  little  one  and  held  out  one  long  withered 
finger.  The  soft  baby  hand  closed  on  it  instantly. 

"Did  he  laugh  ?    I  thought  he  laughed,"  said  the  young  woman. 

A  bright  smile  played  on  her  lips. 

"Maybe  so,  lass." 

"Ralphie  has  never  seen  the  children  before,  father.  Didn't 
he  look  frightened — just  a  little  bit  frightened — at  first,  you  know? 
I  thought  he  crept  behind  my  gown." 

"Maybe,  maybe." 

The  little  one  had  dropped  the  hand  of  his  young  mother,  and, 
still  holding  the  bony  finger  of  his  grandfather,  he  toddled  beside 
him  into  the  house. 

Very  cool  and  sweet  was  the  kitchen,  with  whitewashed  walls 
and  hard  earthen  floor.  A  table  and  a  settle  stood  by  the  window, 
and  a  dresser  that  was  an  armory  of  bright  pewter  dishes,  trenchers, 
and  piggins,  crossed  the  opposite  wall. 

"Nay,  but  sista  here,  laal  lad,"  said  the  old  man,  and  he  dived 
into  a  great  pocket  at  his  side. 

"Have  you  brought  it?  Is  it  the  kitten?  Oh,  dear,  let  the 
boy  see  it !" 

A  kitten  came  out  of  the  old  man's  pocket,  and  was  set  down 
on  the  rug  at  the  hearth.  The  timid  creature  sat  dazed,  then  raised 
itself  on  its  hind  legs  and  mewed. 

"Where's  Ralphie?  Is  he  watching  it,  father.  What  is  he 
doing?" 

The  little  one  had  dropped  on  hands  and  knees  before  the  kitten, 
and  was  gazing  up  into  its  face. 


THE   BLIND   MOTHER  331 

The  mother  leaned  over  him  with  a  face  that  would  have 
beamed  with  sunshine  if  the  sun  of  sight  had  not  been  missing. 

"Is  he  looking?    Doesn't  he  want  to  coddle  it?" 

The  little  chap  had  pushed  his  nose  close  to  the  nose  of  the 
kitten,  and  was  prattling  to  it  in  various  inarticulate  noises. 

"Boo — loo — lal-la — mama." 

"Isn't  he  a  darling,  father?" 

"It's  a  winsome  wee  thing,"  said  the  old  man,  still  standing,  with 
drooping  head,  over  the  group  on  the  hearth. 

The  mother's  face  saddened,  and  she  turned  away.  Then  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  kitchen,  where  she  was  making  pretense 
to  take  plates  from  a  plate-rack,  there  came  the  sound  of  suppressed 
weeping.  The  old  man's  eyes  followed  her. 

"Nay,  lass ;  let's  have  a  sup  of  broth,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  car- 
ried another  message. 

The  young  woman  put  plates  and  a  bowl  of  broth  on  the  table. 

"To  think  that  I  can  never  see  my  own  child,  and  everybody 
else  can  see  him!"  she  said,  and  then  there  was  another  bout  of 
tears. 

The  charcoal-burner  supped  at  his  broth  in  silence.  A  glisten- 
ing bead  rolled  slowly  down  his  wizened  cheek:  and  the  interview 
on  the  hearth  went  on  without  interruption : 

"Mew — mew — mew.    Boo — loo — lal-la — mama." 

The  child  made  efforts  to  drag  himself  to  his  feet  by  laying  hold 
of  the  old  man's  trousers. 

"Nay,  laddie,"  said  the  old  man,  "mind  my  claes — they'll  dirty 
thy  bran-new  brat  for  thee." 

"Is  he  growing,  father?"  said  the  girl. 

"Growing  ? — amain." 

"And  his  eyes — are  they  changing  color  ? — going  brown  ?  Chil- 
idren's  eyes  do,  you  know." 

"Maybe — I'll  not  be  for  saying  nay." 

"Is  he — is  he  very  like  me,  father?" 

"Nay — well — nay — Fs  fancying  I  see  summat  of  the  stranger  in 
the  laal  chap  at  whiles." 

The  young  mother  turned  her  head  aside. 

The  old  man's  name  was  Matthew  Fisher ;  but  the  folks  of  the 
countryside  called  him  Laird  Fisher.  This  dubious  dignity  came 
of  the  circumstance  that  he  had  been  the  holder  of  an  absolute  roy- 
alty in  a  few  acres  of  land  under  Hindscarth.  The  royalty  had 
been  many  generations  in  his  family.  His  grandfather  had  set 
Store  by  it.  When  the  Lord  of  the  Manor  had  worked  the  copper 


332  THE    BLIND    MOTHER 

pits  at  the  foot  of  the  Eal  Crags,  he  had  tried  to  possess  himself  of 
the  royalties  of  the  Fishers.  But  the  present  families  resisted  the 
aristocrat.  Luke  Fisher  believed  there  was  a  fortune  under  his 
feet,  and  he  meant  to  try  his  luck  on  his  holding  some  day.  That 
day  never  came.  His  son,  Mark  Fisher,  carried  on  the  tradition, 
but  made  no  effort  to  unearth  the  fortune.  They  were  a  cool, 
silent,  slow,  and  stubborn  race.  Matthew  Fisher  followed  his  father 
and  his  grandfather,  and  inherited  the  family  pride.  All  these  years 
the  tenders  of  the  Lord  of  the  Manor  were  ignored,  and  the 
Fishers  enjoyed  their  title  of  courtesy  or  badinage.  Matthew  mar- 
ried, and  had  one  daughter  called  Mercy.  He  farmed  his  few 
acres  with  poor  results.  The  ground  was  good  enough,  but  Mat- 
thew was  living  under  the  shadow  of  the  family  tradition.  One 
day — it  was  Sunday  morning,  and  the  sun  shone  brightly — he  was 
rambling  by  the  Po  Bett  that  rises  on  Hindscarth,  and  passed 
through  his  land,  when  his  eyes  glanced  over  a  glittering  stone 
that  lay  among  the  pebbles  at  the  bottom  of  the  stream.  It  was  ore, 
good  full  ore,  and  on  the  very  surface.  Then  the  Laird  sank  a 
shaft,  and  all  his  earnings  with  it,  in  an  attempt  to  procure  iron  or 
copper.  The  dalespeople  derided  him,  but  he  held  silently  on 
his  way. 

"How  dusta  find  the  cobbles  to-day — any  softer?"  they  would 
say  in  passing. 

"As  soft  as  the  hearts  of  most  folk,"  he  would  answer;  and 
then  add  in  a  murmur,  "and  maybe  a  vast  harder  nor  their  heads." 

The  undeceiving  came  at  length,  and  then  the  Laird  Fisher 
was  old  and  poor.  His  wife  died  broken-hearted.  After  that  the 
Laird  never  rallied.  The  shaft  was  left  unworked,  and  the  hold- 
ing lay  fallow.  Laird  Fisher  took  wage  from  the  Lord  of  the 
Manor  to  burn  charcoal  in  the  wood.  The  breezy  irony  of  the 
dalesfolk  did  not  spare  the  old  man's  bent  head.  There  was  a 
rime  current  in  the  vale  which  ran: 

"There's  t'auld  laird,  and  t'young  laird,  and  t'laird  among  t'barns, 
If  iver  there  comes  another  laird,  we'll  hang  him  up  by  farms." 

A  second  man  came  to  Matthew's  abandoned  workings.  He  put 
money  into  it  and  skill  and  knowledge,  struck  a  vein,  and  began  to 
realize  a  fortune.  The  only  thing  he  did  for  the  old  Laird  was  to 
make  him  his  banksman  at  a  pound  a  week — the  only  thing  save 
one  thing,  and  that  is  the  beginning  of  this  story. 

The  man's  name  was  Hugh  Ritson.  He  was  the  second  son  of 
a  Cumbrian  statesman  in  a  neighboring  valley,  was  seven-and- 
twenty,  and  had  been  brought  up  as  a  mining  engineer,  first  at 


THE   BLIND   MOTHER  333 

Cleaton  Moor  and  afterward  at  the  College  in  Jerman  Street. 
When  he  returned  to  Cumberland  and  bought  the  old  Laird's 
holding  he  saw  something  of  the  old  Laird's  daughter.  He  re- 
membered Mercy  as  a  pretty  prattling  thing  of  ten  or  eleven.  She 
was  now  a  girl  of  eighteen,  with  a  simple  face,  a  timid  manner, 
and  an  air  that  was  neither  that  of  a  woman  nor  of  a  child.  Her 
mother  was  lately  dead,  her  father  spent  most  of  his  days  on  the 
fell  (some  of  his  nights  also  when  the  charcoal  was  burning),  and 
she  was  much  alone.  Hugh  Ritson  liked  her  sweet  face,  her  gentle 
replies,  and  her  few  simple  questions.  It  is  unnecessary  to  go 
further.  The  girl  gave  herself  up  to  him  with  her  whole  heart  and 
soul.  Then  he  married  another  woman. 

The  wife  was  the  daughter  of  the  Vicar,  Parson  Christian.  Her 
name  was  Greta:  she  was  beautiful  to  look  upon — a  girl  of  spirit 
and  character.  Greta  knew  nothing  of  Hugh  Ritson's  intercourse 
.with  Mercy  until  after  he  had  become  her  husband.  Mercy  was 
then  in  the  depth  of  her  trouble,  and  Greta  had  gone  to  comfort 
her.  Down  to  that  hour,  though  idle  tongues  had  wagged,  no  one 
had  lighted  on  Mercy's  lover,  and  not  even  in  her  fear  had  she 
confessed.  Greta  told  her  that  it  was  brave  and  beautiful  to  shield 
her  friend,  but  he  was  unworthy  of  her  friendship  or  he  would 
stand  by  her  side — who  was  he?  It  was  a  trying  moment.  Greta 
urged  and  pleaded  and  coaxed,  and  Mercy  trembled  and  stam- 
mered and  was  silent.  The  truth  came  out  at  last,  and  from  that 
moment  the  love  between  the  two  women  was  like  the  love  of 
David  and  Jonathan.  Hugh  Ritson  was  compelled  to  stand  apart 
and  witness  it.  He  could  not  recognize  it;  he  dared  not  oppose  it; 
he  could  only  drop  his  head  and  hold  his  tongue.  It  was  coals  of 
fire  on  his  head  from  both  sides.  The  women  never  afterward  men- 
tioned, him  to  each  other,  and  yet  somehow — by  some  paradox  of 
love — he  was  the  bond  between  them. 

A  month  before  the  birth  of  the  child,  Mercy  became  blind. 
This  happened  suddenly  and  without  much  warning.  A  little  cold 
in  the  eyes,  a  little  redness  around  them  and  a  total  eclipse  of  sight. 
If  such  a  disaster  had  befallen  a  married  wife,  looking  forward  to  a 
happy  motherhood,  death  itself  might  have  seemed  a  doom  more 
kind.  But  Mercy  took  it  with  a  sombre  quietness.  She  was  even 
heard  to  say  that  it  was  just  as  well.  These  startling  words,  re- 
peated to  Greta,  just  told  her  something  of  the  mystery  and  misery 
of  Mercy's  state.  But  their  full  meaning,  the  whole  depth  of  the 
shame  they  came  from,  were  only  revealed  on  the  morning  after  the 
night  on  which  Mercy's  child  was  born. 

They  were  in  the  room  upstairs,  where  Mercy  herself  had  been 


334  THE   BLIND   MOTHER 

born  less  than  nineteen  years  before :  a  little  chamber  with  the  low 
eaves  and  the  open  roof  rising  to  the  ridge:  a  peaceful  place  with 
its  whitewashed  walls  and  the  odor  of  clean  linen.  On  the  pillow 
of  the  bed  lay  the  simple  face  of  the  girl-mother,  with  its  fair  hair 
hanging  loose  and  its  blind  eyes  closed.  Mercy  had  just  awakened 
from  the  first  deep  sleep  that  comes  after  all  is  over,  and  the  long 
fingers  of  one  of  her  thin  hands  were  plucking  at  the  white  counter- 
pane. In  a  nervous  voice  she  began  to  speak.  Where  was  Mrs. 
Ritson?  Greta  answered  that  she  was  there,  and  the  baby  was 
sleeping  on  her  knee.  Anybody  else?  No,  nobody  else.  -Was  it 
morning?  Yes,  it  was  eight  in  the  morning,  and  her  father,  who 
had  not  been  to  bed,  had  eaten  his  breakfast,  and  lighted  his  pipe 
and  gone  to  work.  Was  the  day  fine?  Very  fine.  And  the  sun 
shining?  Yes,  shining  beautifully.  Was  the  blind  down?  Yes, 
the  little  white  blind  was  down.  Then  all  the  room  was  full  of 
that  soft  light?  Oh,  yes,  full  of  it.  Except  in  the  corner  by  the 
washstand?  Well,  except  in  the  corner.  Was  the  washstand  still 
there?  Why,  yes,  it  was  still  there.  And  mother's  picture  on  the 
wall  above  it?  Oh,  dear,  yes.  And  the  chest  of  drawers  near  the 
door  with  the  bits  of  sparkling  lead  ore  on  top?  Of  course.  And 
the  texts  pinned  on  to  the  wall-paper :  "Come  unto  Me" — eh  ?  Yes, 
they  were  all  there.  Then  everything  was  just  the  same?  Oh, 
yes,  everything  the  same. 

"The  same,"  cried  Mercy,  "everything  the  same,  but,  O  Lord 
Jesus,  how  different!" 

The  child  was  awakened  by  the  shrill  sound  of  her  voice,  and 
it  began  to  whimper,  and  Greta  to  hush  it,  swaying  it  on  her  knee, 
and  calling  it  by  a  score  of  pretty  names.  Mercy  raised  her  head 
a  moment  and  listened,  then  fell  back  to  the  pillow  and  said,  "How 
glad  I  am  I'm  blind !" 

"Good  gracious,  Mercy,  what  are  you  saying?"  said  Greta. 

"I'm  glad  I  can't  see  it." 

"Mercy !" 

"Ah,  you're  different,  Mrs.  Ritson.  I  was  thinking  of  that  last 
night.  When  your  time  comes  perhaps  you'll  be  afraid  you'll  die, 
but  you'll  never  be  afraid  you'll  not.  And  you'll  say  to  yourself,  'It 
will  be  over  soon,  and  then  what  joy!'  That  wasn't  my  case. 
When  I  was  at  the  worst  I  could  only  think,  'It's  dreadful  now,  but 
oh,  to-morrow  all  the  world  will  be  different.' " 

One  poor  little  day  changed  all  this.  Toward  sunset  the  child 
had  to  be  given  the  breast  lor  the  first  time.  Ah !  that  mystery 
of  life,  that  mystery  of  motherhood,  what  are  the  accidents  of 
social  law,  the  big  conventions  of  virtue  and  vice,  of  honor  and 


THE   BLIND   MOTHER  335 

disgrace,  before  the  touch  of  the  spreading  fingers  of  a  babe  as 
they  fasten  on  the  mother's  breast!  Mercy  thought  no  more  of 
her  shame. 

She  had  her  baby  for  it,  at  all  events.  The  world  was  not 
utterly  desolate.  After  all,  God  was  very  good ! 

Then  came  a  great  longing  for  sight.  She  only  wished  to  see  her 
child.  That  was  all.  Wasn't  it  hard  that  a  mother  had  never  seen 
her  own  baby  ?  In  her  darkness  she  would  feel  its  little  nose  as  it 
lay  asleep  beside  her,  and  let  her  hand  play  around  its  mouth  and 
over  its  eyes  and  about  its  ears.  Her  touch  passed  over  the  little 
one  like  a  look.  It  was  almost  as  if  there  were  sight  in  the  tips  of 
her  fingers. 

The  child  lived  to  be  six  months  old,  and  still  Mercy  had  not 
seen  him;  a  year,  and  yet  she  had  no  hope.  Then  Greta,  in  pity 
of  the  yearning  gaze  of  the  blind  girl-face  whenever  she  came  and 
kissed  the  boy  and  said  how  bonny  he  was,  sent  to  Liverpool  for  a 
doctor,  that  at  least  they  might  know  for  a  certainty  if  Mercy's 
sight  was  gone  forever.  The  doctor  came.  Yes,  there  was  hope. 
The  mischief  was  cataract  on  both  eyes.  Sight  might  return,  but 
an  operation  would  be  necessary.  That  could  not,  however,  be 
performed  immediately.  He  would  come  again  in  a  month,  and  a 
colleague  with  him,  and  meantime  the  eyes  must  be  bathed  con- 
stantly in  a  liquid  which  they  would  send  for  the  purpose. 

At  first  Mercy  was  beside  herself  with  delight.  She  plucked  up 
the  boy  and  kissed  and  kissed  him.  The  whole  day  long  she  sang 
all  over  the  house  like  a  liberated  bird.  Her  face,  though  it  was 
blind,  was  like  sunshine,  for  the  joyous  mouth  smiled  like  eyes. 
Then  suddenly  there  came  a  change.  She  plucked  up  the  boy  and 
kissed  him  still,  but  she  did  not  sing  and  she  did  not  smile.  A 
heavy  thought  had  come  to  her.  Ah !  if  she  should  die  under  the 
doctor's  hands !  Was  it  not  better  to  live  in  blindness  and  keep  her 
boy  than  to  try  to  see  him  and  so  lose  him  altogether?  Thus  it 
was  with  her  on  St.  Peter's  Day,  when  the  children  of  the  dale 
went  by  at  their  rush-bearing. 


There  was  the  faint  sound  of  a  footstep  outside. 

"Hark!"  said  Mercy,  half  rising  from  the  sconce.  "It's  Mrs. 
Ritson's  foot." 

The  man  listened.    "Nay,  lass,  there's  no  foot,"  said  Matthew. 

"Yes,  she's  on  the  road,"  said  Mercy.  Her  face  showed  that 
pathetic  tension  of  the  other  senses  which  is  peculiar  to  the  blind. 
'A  moment  later  Greta  stepped  into  the  cottage,  with  a  letter  in 


336  THE   BLIND   MOTHER 

her  hand.  "Good-morning,  Matthew ;  I  have  news  for  you,  Mercy. 
The  doctors  are  coming  to-day." 

Mercy's  face  fell  perceptibly.  The  old  man's  head  dropped 
lower. 

"There,  don't  be  afraid,"  said  Greta,  touching  her  hand  caress- 
ingly. "It  will  soon  be  over.  The  doctors  didn't  hurt  you  before, 
did  they?" 

"No,  but  this  time  it  will  be  the  operation,"  said  Mercy.  There 
was  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

Greta  had  lifted  the  child  from  the  sconce.  The  little  fellow 
cooed  close  to  her  ear;  and  babbled  his  inarticulate  nothings. 

"Only  think,  when  it's  all  over  you  will  be  able  to  see  your  dar- 
ling Ralphie  for  the  first  time !" 

Mercy's  sightless  face  brightened.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "and 
watch  him  play,  and  see  him  spin  his  tops  and  chase  the  butter- 
flies. Oh,  that  will  be  very  good !" 

"Dusta  say  to-day,  Mistress  Ritson?"  asked  Matthew,  the  big 
drops  standing  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  Matthew;  I  will  stay  to  see  it  over,  and  mind  baby,  and 
help  a  little." 

Mercy  took  the  little  one  from  Greta's  arms  and  cried  over  it, 
and  laughed  over  it.  and  then  cried  and  laughed  again.  "Mama 
and  Ralphie  shall  play  together  in  the  garden,  darling ;  and  Ralphie 
shall  see  the  horses — and  the  flowers — and  the  birdies — and  mama 
— yes,  mama  shall  see  Ralphie." 


THE   BLIND    MOTHER  337 


II 

Two  hours  later  the  doctors  arrived.  They  looked  at  Mercy's 
eyes,  and  were  satisfied  that  the  time  was  ripe  for  the  operation. 
At  the  sound  of  their  voices,  Mercy  trembled  and  turned  livid. 
By  a  maternal  instinct  she  picked  up  the  child,  who  was  toddling 
about  the  floor,  and  clasped  it  to  her  bosom.  The  little  one  opened 
wide  his  blue  eyes  at  sight  of  the  strangers,  and  the  prattling 
tongue  became  quiet. 

"Take  her  to  her  room,  and  let  her  lie  on  the  bed,"  said  one 
of  the  doctors  to  Greta. 

A  sudden  terror  seized  the  young  mother.  "No,  no,  no !"  she 
said,  in  an  indescribable  accent,  and  the  child  cried  a  little  from 
the  pressure  to  her  breast. 

"Come,  Mercy,  dear,  be  brave  for  your  boy's  sake,"  said  Greta. 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  the  doctor,  quietly  but  firmly:  "You  are 
now  quite  blind,  and  you  have  been  in  total  darkness  for  a  year  and 
a  half.  We  may  be  able  to  restore  your  sight  by  giving  you  a  few 
minutes'  pain.  Will  you  not  bear  it?" 

Mercy  sobbed,  and  kissed  the  child  passionately. 

"Just  think,  it  is  quite  certain  that  without  an  operation  you 
will  never  regain  your  sight,"  continued  the  doctor.  "You  have 
nothing  to  lose,  and  everything  to  gain.  Are  you  satisfied  ?  Come, 
go  away  to  your  room  quietly." 

"Oh,  oh,  oh !"   sobbed   Mercy. 

"Just  imagine,  only  a  few  minutes'  pain,  and  even  of  that  you 
will  scarcely  be  conscious.  Before  you  know  what  is  doing  it  will 
be  done." 

Mercy  clung  closer  to  her  child,  and  kissed  it  again  and  yet 
more  fervently. 

The  doctors  turned  to  each  other.  "Strange  vanity !"  muttered 
the  one  who  had  not  spoken  before.  "Her  eyes  are  useless,  and  yet 
she  is  afraid  she  may  lose  them." 

Mercy's  quick  ears  caught  the  whispered  words.  "It  is  not 
that,"  she  said,  passionately. 

"No,  gentlemen,"  said  Greta,  "you  have  mistaken  her  thought. 
Tell  her  she  runs  no  danger  of  her  life." 

The  doctors  smiled  and  laughed  a  little.  "Oh,  that's  it,  eh? 
Well,  we  can  tell  her  that  with  certainty." 

15  Yol.  II. 


338  THE   BLIND   MOTHER 

Then  there  was  another  interchange  of  half-amused  glances. 

"Ah,  we  that  be  men,  sirs,  don't  know  the  depth  and  tenderness 
of  a  mother's  heart,"  said  old  Matthew.  And  Mercy  turned  toward 
him  a  face  that  was  full  of  gratitude.  Greta  took  the  child  out  of 
her  arms  and  hushed  it  to  sleep  in  another  room.  Then  she  brought 
it  back  and  put  it  in  its  cradle  that  stood  in  the  ingle. 

"Come,  Mercy,"  she  said,  "for  the  sake  of  your  boy."  And 
Mercy  permitted  herself  to  be  led  from  the  kitchen. 

"So  there  will  be  no  danger,"  she  said.  "I  shall  not  leave  my 
boy.  Who  said  that?  The  doctor?  Oh,  good  gracious,  it's  noth- 
ing. Only  think,  I  shall  live  to  see  him  grow  to  be  a  great  lad." 

Her  whole  face  was  now  radiant. 

"It  will  be  nothing.  Oh,  no,  it  will  be  nothing.  How  silly  it 
was  to  think  that  he  would  live  on,  and  grow  up,  and  be  a  man,  and 
I  lie  cold  in  the  churchyard — and  me  his  mother !  That  was  very 
childish,  wasn't  it?  But,  then,  I  have  been  so  childish  since  Ralphie 
came." 

"There,  lie  and  be  quiet,  and  it  will  soon  be  over,"  said  Greta. 

"Let  me  kiss  him  first.  Do  let  me  kiss  him !  Only  once.  You 
know  it's  a  great  risk  after  all.  And  if  he  grew  up — and  I  wasn't 
here — if — if — " 

"There,  dear  Mercy,  you  must  not  cry  again.  It  inflames  your 
eyes,  and  that  can't  be  good  for  the  doctors." 

"No,  no,  I  won't  cry.  You  are  very  good;  everybody  is  very 
good.  Only  let  me  kiss  my  little  Ralphie — just  for  the  last." 

Greta  led  her  back  to  the  side  of  the  cot,  and  she  spread  herself 
over  it  with  outstretched  arms,  as  the  mother-bird  poises  with  out- 
stretched wings  over  her  brood.  Then  she  rose,  and  her  face  was 
peaceful  and  resigned. 

The  Laird  Fisher  sat  down  before  the  kitchen  fire,  with  one 
arm  on  the  cradle  head.  Parson  Christian  stood  beside  him.  The 
old  charcoal-burner  wept  in  silence,  and  the  good  Parson's  voice 
was  too  thick  for  the  words  of  comfort  that  rose  to  his  lips. 

The  doctors  followed  into  the  bedroom.  Mercy  was  lying 
tranquilly  on  her  bed.  Her  countenance  was  without  expression. 
She  was  busy  with  her  own  thoughts.  Greta  stood  by  the  bed- 
side ;  anxiety  was  written  in  every  line  of  her  beautiful,  brave  face. 

"We  must  give  her  the  gas,"  said  one  of  the  doctors,  addressing 
the  other. 

Mercy's  features  twitched. 

"Who  said  that?"  she  asked  nervously. 

"My  child,  you  must  be  quiet,"  said  the  doctor  in  a  tone  of 
authority. 


THE   BLIND   MOTHER  339 

"Yes,  I  will  be  quiet,  very  quiet ;  only  don't  make  me  uncon- 
scious," she  said.  "Never  mind  me;  I  will  not  cry.  No;  if  you 
hurt  me  I  will  not  cry  out.  I  will  not  stir.  I  will  do  everything 
you  ask.  And  you  shall  say  how  quiet  I  have  been.  Only  don't 
let  me  be  insensible." 

The  doctors  consulted  together  aside,  and  in  whispers. 

"Who  spoke  about  the  gas?  It  wasn't  you,  Mrs.  Ritson, 
was  it?" 

"You  must  do  as  the  doctors  wish,  dear,"  said  Greta  in  a 
caressing  voice. 

"Oh,  I  will  be  very  good.  I  will  do  every  little  thing.  Yes, 
and  I  will  be  so  brave.  I  am  a  little  childish  sometimes,  but  I  can 
be  brave,  can't  I?" 

The  doctors  returned  to  the  bedside. 

"Very  well,  we  will  not  use  the  gas,"  said  one.  "You  are  a 
brave  little  woman,  after  all.  There,  be  still — very  still." 

One  of  the  doctors  was  tearing  linen  into  strips  for  bandages, 
while  the  other  fixed  Mercy's  head  to  suit  the  light. 

There  was  a  faint  sound  from  the  kitchen.  "Wait,"  said  Mercy. 
"That  is  father — he's  crying.  Tell  him  not  to  cry.  Say  it's 
nothing." 

She  laughed  a  weak  little  laugh. 

"There,  he  will  hear  that;  go  and  say  it  was  I  who  laughed." 

Greta  left  the  room  on  tiptoe.  Old  Matthew  was  still  sitting 
over  a  dying  fire,  gently  rocking  the  sleeping  child. 

When  Greta  returned  to  the  bedroom,  Mercy  called  her,  and 
said,  very  softly,  "Let  me  hold  your  hand,  Greta — may  I  say 
Greta  ? — there,"  and  her  fingers  closed  on  Greta's  with  a  convulsive 
grasp. 

The  operation  began.  Mercy  held  her  breath.  She  had  the 
stubborn  north-country  blood  in  her.  Once  only  a  sigh  escaped. 
There  was  a  dead  silence. 

In  two  or  three  minutes  the  doctor  said,  "Just  another  minute, 
and  all  will  be  over." 

At  the  next  instant  Greta  felt  her  hand  held  with  a  grasp  of 
iron. 

"Doctor,  doctor,  I  can  see  you,"  cried  Mercy,  and  her  words 
came  in  gusts. 

"Be  quiet,"  said  the  doctor  in  a  stern  voice.  In  half  a  minute 
more  the  linen  bandages  were  being  wrapped  tightly  over  Mercy's 
eyes. 

"Doctor,  dear  doctor,  let  me  see  my  boy!"  cried  Mercy. 

"Be  quiet,  I  say,"  said  the  doctor  again. 


340  THE   BLIND    MOTHER 

"Dear  doctor,  my  dear  doctor,  only  one  peep — one  little  peep. 
I  saw  your  face — let  me  see  my  Ralphie's." 

"Not  yet,  it  is  not  safe." 

"But  only  for  a  moment.  Don't  put  the  bandage  on  for  one  mo- 
ment. Just  think,  doctor,  I  have  never  seen  my  boy;  I've  seen 
other  people's  children,  but  never  once  my  own,  own  darling.  Oh, 
dear  doctor — " 

"You  are  exciting  yourself.  Listen  to  me :  if  you  don't  behave 
yourself  now  you  may  never  see  your  child." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will  behave  myself;  I  will  be  very  good.  Only 
don't  shut  me  up  in  darkness  again  until  I  see  my  boy.  Greta,  bring 
him  to  me.  Listen,  I  hear  his  breathing.  Go  for  my  darling !  The 
kind  doctor  won't  be  angry  with  you.  Tell  him  that  if  I  see  my 
child  it  will  cure  me.  I  know  it  will." 

Greta's  eyes  were  swimming  in  tears. 

"Rest  quiet,  Mercy.  Everything  may  be  lost  if  you  disturb 
yourself  now,  my  dear." 

The  doctors  were  wrapping  bandage  over  bandage,  and  fixing 
them  firmly  at  the  back  of  their  patient's  head. 

"Now  listen  again,"  said  one  of  them:  "This  bandage  must  be 
kept  over  your  eyes  for  a  week." 

"A  week — a  whole  week?  Oh,  doctor,  you  might  as  well  say 
forever." 

"I  say  a  week.    And  if  you  should  ever  remove  it — " 

"Not  for  an  instant?     Not  raise  it  a  very  little?" 

"If  you  ever  remove  it  for  an  instant,  or  raise  it  ever  so  little, 
you  will  assuredly  lose  your  sight  forever.  Remember  that." 

"Oh,  doctor,  it  is  terrible.  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  so  before? 
Oh  this  is  worse  than  blindness !  Think  of  the  temptation,  and  I 
have  never  seen  my  boy!" 

The  doctor  had  fixed  the  bandage,  and  his  voice  was  less  stern, 
but  no  less  resolute. 

"You  must  obey  me,"  he  said ;  "I  will  come  again  this  day  week, 
and  then  you  shall  see  your  child,  and  your  father,  and  this  young 
lady,  and  everybody.  But  mind,  if  you  don't  obey  me,  you  will 
never  se«  anything.  You  will  have  one  glance  of  your  little  boy, 
and  then  be  blind  forever,  or  perhaps — yes,  perhaps  die." 

Mercy  lay  quiet  for  a  moment  Then  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice : 

"Dear  doctor,  you  must  forgive  me.  I  am  very  wilful,  and  I 
promised  to  be  so  good.  I  will  not  touch  the  bandage.  No,  for  the 
sake  of  my  little  boy,  I  will  never,  never  touch  it.  You  shall  come 
yourself  and  take  it  off,  and  then  I  shall  see  him." 


THE   BLIND   MOTHER  341 

The  doctors  went  away.  Greta  remained  all  that  night  in  the 
cottage. 

"You  are  happy  now,  Mercy?"  said  Greta. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Mercy.  "Just  think,  only  a  week!  And  he 
must  be  so  beautiful  by  this  time." 

When  Greta  took  the  child  to  her  at  sunset,  there  was  an  in- 
effable joy  in  her  pale  face,  and  next  morning,  when  Greta  awoke, 
Mercy  was  singing  softly  to  herself  in  the  sunrise. 


342  THE   BLIND    MOTHER 


III 

GRETA  stayed  with  Mercy  until  noon  that  day,  begging,  entreat- 
ing, and  finally  commanding  her  to  lie  quiet  in  bed,  while  she  her- 
self dressed  and  fed  the  child,  and  cooked  and  cleaned,  in  spite  of 
the  Laird  Fisher's  protestations.  When  all  was  done,  and  the  old 
charcoal-burner  had  gone  out  on  the  hills,  Greta  picked  up  the 
little  fellow  in  her  arms  and  went  to  Mercy's  room.  Mercy  was 
alert  to  every  sound,  and  in  an  instant  was  sitting  up  in  bed.  Her 
face  beamed,  her  parted  lips  smiled,  her  delicate  fingers  plucked 
nervously  at  the  counterpane. 

"How  brightsome  it  is  to-day,  Greta,"  she  said.  "I'm  sure  the 
sun  must  be  shining." 

The  window  was  open,  and  a  soft  breeze  floated  through  the 
sun's  rays  into  the  room.  Mercy  inclined  her  head  aside,  and 
added,  "Ah,  you  young  rogue,  you;  you  are  there,  are  you?  Give 
him  to  me,  the  rascal !"  The  rogue  was  set  down  in  his  mother's 
arms,  and  she  proceeded  to  punish  his  rascality  with  a  shower  of 
kisses.  "How  bonny  his  cheeks  must  be;  they  will  be  just  like 
two  ripe  apples,"  and  forthwith  there  fell  another  shower  of  kisses. 
Then  she  babbled  over  the  little  one,  and  lisped,  and  stammered, 
and  nodded  her  head  in  his  face,  and  blew  little  puffs  of  breath  into 
his  hair,  and  tickled  him  until  he  laughed  and  crowed  and  rolled 
and  threw  up  his  legs;  and  then  she  kissed  his  limbs  and  extremi- 
ties in  a  way  that  mothers  have,  and  finally  imprisoned  one  of  his 
feet  by  putting  it  ankle-deep  into  her  mouth.  "Would  you  ever 
think  a  foot  could  be  so  tiny,  Greta  ?"  she  said.  And  the  little  one 
plunged  about  and  clambered  laboriously  up  its  mother's  breast,  and 
more  than  once  plucked  at  the  white  bandage  about  her  head.  "No, 
no,  Ralphie  must  not  touch,"  said  Mercy  with  sudden  gravity. 
"Only  think,  Ralphie  pet,  one  week — only  one — nay,  less — only  six 
days  now,  and  then — oh,  then — !"  A  long  hug,  and  the  little  fel- 
low's boisterous  protest  against  the  convulsive  pressure  abridged 
the  mother's  prophecy. 

All  at  once  Mercy's  manner  changed.  She  turned  toward  Greta, 
and  said,  "I  will  not  touch  the  bandage,  no,  never;  but  if  Ralphie 
tugged  at  it,  and  it  fell — would  that  be  breaking  my  promise  ?'' 

Greta  saw  what  was  in  her  heart. 

"I'm  afraid  it  would,  dear,"  she  said,  but  there  was  a  tremor 
in  her  voice. 


THE   BLIND    MOTHER 


343 


Mercy  sighed  audibly. 

"Just  think,  it  would  be  only  Ralphie.  The  kind  doctors  could 
not  be  angry  with  my  little  child.  I  would  say,  'It  was  the  boy,' 
and  they  would  smile  and  say,  'Ah,  that  is  different.'  " 

"Give  me  the  little  one,"  said  Greta  with  emotion. 

Mercy  drew  the  child  closer,  and  there  was  a  pause. 

"I  was  very  wrong,  Greta,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone.  "Oh !  you 
would  not  think  what  a  fearful  thing  came  into  my  mind  a  minute 
ago.  Take  my  Ralphie.  Just  imagine,  my  own  innocent  baby 
tempted  me." 

As  Greta  reached  across  the  bed  to  lift  the  child  out  of  his 
mother's  lap,  the  little  fellow  was  struggling  to  communicate,  by 
help  of  a  limited  vocabulary,  some  wondrous  intelligence  of  recent 
events  that  somewhat  overshadowed  his  little  existence.  "Puss — 
dat,"  many  times  repeated,  was  further  explained  by  one  chubby 
forefinger  with  its  diminutive  finger  nail  pointed  to  the  fat  back 
of  the  other  hand. 

"He  means  that  the  little  cat  has  scratched  him,"  said  Greta. 
"But  bless  the  mite,  he  is  pointing  to  the  wrong  hand." 

"Puss — dat,"  continued  the  child,  and  peered  up  into  his  mother's 
sightless  face.  Mercy  was  all  tears  in  an  instant.  She  had  borne 
yesterday's  operation  without  a  groan,  but  now  the  scratch  on  her 
child's  hand  went  to  her  heart  like  a  stab. 

"Lie  quiet,  Mercy,"  said  Greta;  "it  will  be  gone  to-morrow." 

"Go-on,"  echoed  the  little  chap,  and  pointed  out  at  the  window. 

"The  darling,  how  he  picks  up  every  word !"  said  Greta. 

"He  means  the  horse,"  explained  Mercy. 

"Go-on — man — go-on,"  prattled  the  little  one,  with  a  child's  in- 
difference to  all  conversation  except  his  own. 

"Bless  the  love,  he  must  remember  the  doctor  and  his  horse/'' 
said  Greta. 

Mercy  was  putting  her  lips  to  the  scratch  on  the  little  hand. 

"Oh,  Greta,  I  am  very  childish;  but  a  mother's  heart  melts  like 
butter." 

"Batter,"  echoed  the  child,  and  wriggled  out  of  Greta's  arms  to 
the  ground,  where  he  forthwith  clambered  on  to  the  stool,  and  pos- 
sessed himself  of  a  slice  of  bread  which  lay  on  the  table  at  the 
bedside.  Then  the  fair  curly  head  disappeared  like  a  glint  of  sun- 
light through  the  door  to  the  kitchen. 

"What  shall  I  care  if  other  mothers  see  my  child?  I  shall 
see  him  too,"  said  Mercy,  and  she  sighed.  "Yes,"  she  added,  softly, 
"his  hands  and  his  eyes  and  his  feet,  and  his  soft  hair." 

"Try  to  sleep  an  hour  or  two,  dear,"  said  Greta,  "and  then  per- 


344  THE   BLIND   MOTHER 

haps  you  may  get  up  this  afternoon — only  perhaps,  you  know,  but 
.we'll  see." 

"Yes,  Greta,  yes.    How  kind  you  are." 

"You  will  be  kinder  to  me  some  day,"  said  Greta  very  tenderly. 

"How  very  selfish  I  am.  But  then  it  is  so  hard  not  to  be 
selfish  when  you  are  a  mother.  Only  fancy,  I  never  think  of  myself 
as  Mercy  now.  No,  never.  I'm  just  Ralphie's  mama.  When 
Ralphie  came,  Mercy  must  have  died  in  some  way.  That's  very 
silly,  isn't  it?  Only  it  does  seem  true." 

"Man — go-on — batter,"  was  heard  from  the  kitchen,  mingled 
with  the  patter  of  tiny  feet. 

"Listen  to  him.  How  tricksome  he  is  !  And  you  should  hear  him 
cry  'Oh !'  You  would  say,  'That  child  has  had  an  eye  knocked  out.' 
And  then,  in  a  minute,  behold  he  is  laughing  once  more.  There, 
I'm  selfish  again;  but  I  will  make  up  for  it  some  day,  if  God  is 
good." 

"Yes,  Mercy,  He  is  good,"  said  Greta. 

Her  arm  rested  on  the  door- jamb,  and  her  head  dropped  on  to 
it ;  her  eyes  swam.  Did  it  seem  at  that  moment  as  if  God  had  been 
very  good  to  these  two  women? 

"Greta,"  said  Mercy,  and  her  voice  fell  to  a  whisper,  "do  you 
think  Ralphie  is  like — anybody?" 

"Yes,  dear,  he  is  like  you." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Mercy's  hand  strayed  from  under 
the  bedclothes  and  plucked  at  Greta's  gown. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  asked,  in  a  voice  all  but  inaudible,  "that 
father  knows  who  it  is  ?" 

"I  can  not  say — we  have  never  told  him." 

"Nor  I — he  never  asked,  never  once — only,  you  know,  he  gave 
up  his  work  at  the  mine,  and  went  back  to  the  charcoal-pit  when 
Ralphie  came.  But  he  never  said  a  word." 

Greta  did  not  answer.  At  that  moment  the  bedroom  door  was 
pushed  open  with  a  little  lordly  bang,  and  the  great  wee  man 
entered  with  his  piece  of  bread  insecurely  on  one  prong  of  a  fork. 

"Teas',"  he  explained  complacently,  "toas',"  and  walked  up  to 
the  empty  grate  and  stretched  his  arm  over  the  fender  at  the  cold 
bars. 

"Why,  there's  no  fire  for  toast,  you  darling  goose,"  said  Greta, 
catching  him  in  her  arms,  much  to  his  masculine  vexation. 

Mercy  had  risen  on  an  elbow,  and  her  face  was  full  of  the 
yearning  -of  the  blind.  Then  she  lay  back. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said  to  herself  in  a  faltering  voice,  "let  me 
lie  quiet  and  think  of  all  his  pretty  ways." 


THE   BLIND   MOTHER  345 


IV 

GRETA  returned  home  toward  noon,  laughing  and  crying  a  little 
to  herself  as  she  walked,  for  she  was  full  of  a  dear  delicious  envy. 
She  was  thinking  that  she  could  take  all  the  shame  and  all  the  pain 
for  all  the  joy  of  Mercy's  motherhood. 

God  had  given  Greta  no  children. 

Hugh  Ritson  came  in  to  their  early  dinner  and  she  told  him 
how  things  went  at  the  cottage  of  the  old  Laird  Fisher.  Only  once 
before  had  she  mentioned  Mercy  or  the  child,  and  he  looked  con- 
fused and  awkward.  After  the  meal  was  over  he  tried  to  say 
something  which  had  been  on  his  mind  for  weeks. 

"But  if  anything  should  happen  after  all,"  he  began,  "and  Mercy 
should  not  recover — or  if  she  should  ever  want  to  go  anywhere — 
might  we  not  take — would  you  mind,  Greta — I  mean  it  might  even 
help  her — you  see,"  he  said,  breaking  down  nearly,  "there  is  the 
child,  it's  a  sort  of  duty,  you  know — and  then  a  good  home  and 
upbringing — " 

"Don't  tempt  me,"  said  Greta.  "I've  thought  of  it  a  hundred 
times." 

About  five  o'clock  the  same  evening  a  knock  came  to  the  door, 
and  old  Laird  Fisher  entered.  His  manner  was  more  than  usually 
solemn  and  constrained. 

"I's  coom't  to  say  as  ma  lass's  wee  thing  is  taken  badly,"  he 
said,  "and  rayder  suddent." 

Greta  rose  from  her  seat  and  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak.  She 
[was  hastening  down  the  road  while  the  charcoal-burner  was  still 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

When  Greta  reached  the  old  charcoal-burner's  cottage,  the  little 
one  was  lying  in  a  drowsy  state  in  Mercy's  arms.  Its  breathing 
seemed  difficult ;  sometimes  it  started  in  terror ;  it  was  feverish  and 
Buffered  thirst.  The  mother's  wistful  face  was  bent  down  on  it 
with  an  indescribable  expression.  There  were  only  the  trembling 
lips  to  tell  of  the  sharp  struggle  that  was  going  on  within.  But 
the  yearning  for  a  sight  of  the  little  flushed  countenance,  the  tear- 
less appeal  for  but  one  glimpse  of  the  drowsy  little  eyes,  the  half- 
articulate  cry  of  a  mother's  heart  against  the  fate  that  made  the 
child  she  had  suckled  at  her  breast  a  stranger,  whose  very  features 
she  might  not  know — all  this  was  written  in  that  blind  face. 


346  THE   BLIND   MOTHER 

"Is  he  pale?"  said  Mercy.  "Is  he  sleeping?  He  does  not  talk 
now,  but  only  starts  and  cries,  and  sometimes  coughs." 

"When  did  this  begin?"  asked  Greta. 

"Toward  four  o'clock.  He  had  been  playing,  and  I  noticed  that 
he  breathed  heavily,  and  then  he  came  to  me  to  be  nursed.  Is  he 
awake  now  ?  Listen." 

The  little  one  in  its  restless  drowsiness  was  muttering  faintly, 
"Man — go-on — batter — toas'." 

"The  darling  is  talking  in  his  sleep,  isn't  he  ?"  said  Mercy. 

Then  there  was  a  ringing,  brassy  cough. 

"It  is  croup,"  thought  Greta. 

She  closed  the  window,  lighted  a  fire,  placed  the  kettle  so  that 
the  steam  might  enter  the  room,  then  wrung  flannels  out  of  hot 
water,  and  wrapped  them  about  the  child's  neck.  She  stayed  all 
that  night  at  the  cottage,  and  sat  up  with  the  little  one  and  nursed 
it.  Mercy  could  not  be  persuaded  to  go  to  bed,  but  she  was  very 
quiet.  It  had  not  yet  taken  hold  of  her  that  the  child  was  seri- 
ously ill.  He  was  drowsy  and  a  little  feverish,  his  pulse  beat  fast 
and  he  coughed  hard  sometimes,  but  he  would  be  better  in  the 
morning.  Oh,  yes,  he  would  soon  be  well  again,  and  tearing  up  the 
flowers  in  the  garden. 

Toward  midnight  the  pulse  fell  rapidly,  the  breathing  became 
quieter,  and  the  whole  nature  seemed  to  sink.  Mercy  listened  with 
her  ear  bent  down  at  the  child's  mouth,  and  a  smile  of  ineffable 
joy  spread  itself  over  her  face. 

"Bless  him,  he  is  sleeping  so  clamly,"  she  said. 

Greta  did  not  answer. 

"The  'puss'  and  the  'man'  don't  darken  his  little  life  so  much 
now,"  continued  Mercy  cheerily. 

"No,  dear,"  said  Greta,  in  as  strong  a  voice  as  she  could 
summon. 

"All  will  be  well  with  my  darling  boy  soon,  will  it  not?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Greta,  with  a  struggle. 

Happily  Mercy  could  not  read  the  other  answer  in  her  face. 

Mercy  had  put  her  sensitive  fingers  on  the  child's  nose,  and  was 
touching  him  lightly  about  the  mouth. 

"Greta,"  she  said  in  a  startled  whisper,  "does  he  look  pinched?" 

"A  little,"  said  Greta  quietly. 

"And  his  skin — is  it  cold  and  clammy?" 

"We  must  give  him  another  hot  flannel,"  said  Greta. 

Mercy  sat  at  the  bedside,  and  said  nothing  for  an  hour.  Then 
all  at  once,  and  in  a  strange,  harsh  voice,  she  said: 

"I  wish  God  had  not  made  Ralphie  so  winsome." 


THE   BLIND   MOTHER  347 

Greta  started  at  the  words,  but  made  no  answer. 

The  daylight  came  early.  As  the  first  gleams  of  gray  light  came 
in  at  the  window,  Greta  turned  to  where  Mercy  sat  in  silence.  It 
.was  a  sad  face  that  she  saw  in  the  mingled  yellow  light  of  the  dying 
lamp  and  the  gray  of  the  dawn. 

Mercy  spoke  again. 

"Greta,  do  you  remember  what  Mistress  Branthet  said  when 
her  baby  died  last  back  end  gone  twelvemonth  ?" 

Greta  looked  up  quickly  at  the  bandaged  eyes. 

"What?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  Parson  Christian  tried  to  comfort  her  and  said:  'Your 
baby  is  now  an  angel  in  Paradise/  and  she  turned  on  him  with: 
'Shaf  on  your  angels — I  want  none  on  'em — I  want  my  little  girl.'  " 

Mercy's  voice  broke  into  a  sob. 

Toward  ten  o'clock  the  doctor  came.  He  had  been  detained. 
Very  sorry  to  disoblige  Mrs.  Ritson,  but  fact  was  old  Mr.  de 
(Broadthwaite  had  an  attack  of  lumbago,  complicated  by  a  bout  of 
toothache,  arid  everybody  knew  he  was  most  exacting.  Young  per- 
son's baby  ill?  Feverish,  restless,  starts  in  its  sleep,  and  cough? 
Ah,  croupy  cough — yes,  croup,  true  croup,  not  spasmodic.  Let 
him  see,  how  old?  A  year  and  a  half?  Ah,  bad,  very.  Most  fre- 
quent in  second  year  .of  infancy.  Dangerous,  highly  so.  Forms  a 
membrane  that  occludes  air-passages.  Often  ends  in  convulsions, 
and  child  suffocates.  Sad,  very.  Let  him  see  again.  How  long 
since  the  attack  began?  Yesterday  at  four.  Ah,  far  gone,  far. 
The  great  man  soon  vanished,  leaving  behind  him  a  harmless  prep- 
aration of  aconite  and  ipecacuanha. 

Mercy  had  heard  all,  and  her  pent-up  grief  broke  out  in  sobs. 

"Oh,  to  think  I  shall  hear  my  Ralphie  no  more,  and  to  know 
his  white  cold  face  is  looking  up  from  a  coffin,  while  other  children 
are  playing  in  the  sunshine  and  chasing  the  butterflies!  No,  no, 
it  can  not  be ;  God  will  not  let  it  come  to  pass ;  I  will  pray  to  Him 
and  He  will  save  my  child.  Why,  He  can  do  anything,  and  He  has 
all  the  world.  What  is  my  little  baby  boy" to  Him?  He  will  not 
let  it  be  taken  from  me." 

Greta's  heart  was  too  full  for  speech.  But  she  might  weep  in 
silence,  and  none  there  would  know.  Mercy  stretched  across  the 
bed,  and,  tenderly  folding  the  child  in  her  arms,  she  lifted  him  up, 
and  then  went  down  on  her  knees. 

"Merciful  Father,"  she  said  in  a  childish  voice  of  sweet  con- 
fidence, "this  is  my  baby,  my  Ralphie,  and  I  love  him  so  dearly. 
You  would  never  think  how  much  I  love  him.  But  he  is  ill,  and 
floctor  says  he  may  die.  Oh,  dear  Father,  only  think  what  it 


348  THE   BLIND   MOTHER 

would  be  to  say,  'His  little  face  is  gone.'  And  then  I  have  never 
seen  him.  You  will  not  take  him  away  until  his  mother  sees  him. 
So  soon,  too.  Only  five  days  more.  Why,  it  is  quite  close.  Not 
to-morrow,  nor  the  next  day,  nor  the  next,  but  the  day  after  that." 

She  put  in  many  another  childlike  plea,  and  then  rose  with  a 
smile  on  her  pale  lips  and  replaced  the  little  one  on  his  pillow. 

"How  patient  he  is,"  she  said.  "He  can't  say  'Thank  you,'  but 
I'm  sure  his  eyes  are  speaking.  Let  me  feel."  She  put  her  finger 
lightly  on  the  child's  lids.  "No,  they  are  shut ;  he  must  be  sleeping. 
Oh,  dear,  he  sleeps  very  much.  Is  he  gaining  color?  How  quiet 
he  is.  If  he  would  only  say,  'Mama!'  How  I  wish  I  could  see 
him !" 

She  was  very  quiet  for  a  while,  and  then  plucked  at  Greta's 
gown  suddenly. 

"Greta,"  she  said  eagerly,  "something  tells  me  that  if  I  could 
only  see  Ralphie  I  should  save  him." 

Greta  started  up  in  terror.  "No,  no,  no;  you  must  not  think 
of  it,"  she  said, 

"But  something  whispered  it.  It  must  have  been  God  himself. 
You  know  we  ought  to  obey  God  always." 

"Mercy,  it  was  not  God  who  said  that.  It  was  your  own  heart. 
You  must  not  heed  it." 

"I'm  sure  it  was  God,"  said  Mercy.  "And  I  heard  it  quite 
plain." 

"Mercy,  my  darling,  think  what  you  are  saying.  Think  what  it 
is  you  wish  to  do.  If  you  do  it  you  will  be  blind  forever." 

"But  I  shall  have  saved  my  Ralphie." 

"No,  no;  you  will  not." 

"Will  he  not  be  saved,  Greta?" 

"Only  our  heavenly  Father  knows." 

"Well,  He  whispered  it  in  my  heart.  And,  as  you  say,  He 
knows  best." 

Greta  was  almost  distraught  with  fear.  The  noble  soul  in  her 
would  not  allow  her  to  appeal  to  Mercy's  gratitude  against  the  plea 
of  maternal  love.  But  she  felt  that  all  her  happiness  hung  on  that 
chance.  If  Mercy  regained  her  sight,  all  would  be  well  with  her 
and  hers;  but  if  she  lost  it  the  future  must  be  a  blank. 

The  day  wore  slowly  on,  and  the  child  sank  and  sank.  At 
evening  the  old  charcoal-burner  returned,  and  went  into  the  bed- 
room. He  stood  a  moment  and  looked  down  aV.  the  pinched  little 
face,  and  when  the  child's  eyes  opened  drowsily  for  a  moment  he 
put  his  withered  forefinger  into  its  palm ;  but  there  was  no  longer 
a  responsive  clasp  of  the  chubby  hand. 


THE   BLIND   MOTHER  349 

The  old  man's  lips  quivered  behind  his  white  beard. 

"It  were  a  winsome  wee  thing,"  he  said  faintly,  and  then  turned 
away. 

He  left  his  supper  untouched,  and  went  into  the  porch.  There 
he  sat  on  a  bench  and  whittled  a  blackthorn  stick.  The  sun  was 
sinking  over  the  head  of  the  Eal  Crag ;  the  valley  lay  deep  in  a  pur- 
ple haze;  only  the  bald  top  of  Cat  Bells  stood  out  bright  in  the 
glory  of  the  passing  day.  A  gentle  breeze  came  up  from  the  south, 
and  the  young  corn  chattered  with  its  multitudinous  tongues  in  a 
field  below.  The  dog  lay  at  the  charcoal-burner's  feet,  blinking  in 
the  sun  and  snapping  lazily  at  a  buzzing  fly. 

The  little  life  within  was  ebbing  away.  No  longer  racked 
by  the  ringing  cough,  the  loud  breathing  became  less  frequent 
and  more  harsh.  Mercy  lifted  the  child  from  the  bed,  and  sat 
with  it  before  the  fire.  Greta  saw  its  eyes  open,  and  at  the 
same  moment  she  saw  the  lips  move  slightly,  but  she  heard 
nothing. 

"He  is  calling  his  mama,"  said  Mercy,  with  her  ear  bent 
toward  the  child's  mouth. 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  long  time.  Mercy  pressed  the  child 
to  her  breast;  its  close  presence  seemed  to  soothe  her. 

Greta  stood  and  looked  down ;  she  saw  the  little  lips  move  once 
more,  but  again  she  heard  no  sound. 

"He  is  calling  his  mama,"  repeated  Mercy  wistfully,  "and 
oh,  he  seems  such  a  long  way  off." 

Once  again  the  little  lips  moved. 

"He  is  calling  me,"  said  Mercy,  listening  intently;  and  she 
grew  restless  and  excited.  "He  is  going  away.  I  can  hear  him.  He 
is  far  off.  Ralphie,  Ralphie !"  She  had  lifted  the  child  up  to  her 
face.  "Ralphie,  Ralphie!"  she  cried. 

"Give  me  the  baby,  Mercy,"  said  Greta. 

But  the  mother  clung  to  it  with  a  convulsive  grasp. 

"Ralphie,  Ralphie,  Ralphie  ..." 

There  was  a  sudden  flash  of  some  white  thing.  In  an  instant 
the  bandage  had  fallen  from  Mercy's  head,  and  she  was  peering 
down  into  the  child's  face  with  wild  eyes. 

"Ralphie,  Ralphie!     .    .    .     Hugh!"  she  cried. 

The  mother  had  seen  her  babe  at  last,  and  in  that  instant  she 
had  recognized  the  features  of  its  father. 

At  the  next  moment  the  angel  of  God  passed  through  that 
troubled  house,  and  the  child  lay  dead  at  the  mother's  breast. 

Mercy  saw  it  all,  and  her  impassioned  mood  left  her.  She  rose 
to  her  feet  quietly,  and  laid  the  little  one  in  the  bed.  There  was 


350  THE   BLIND   MOTHER 

never  a  sigh  more,  never  a  tear.  Only  her  face  was  ashy  pale,  and 
her  whitening  lips  quivered. 

"Greta,"  she  said,  very  slowly,  "good-by !    All  is  over  now." 

She  spoke  of  herself  as  if  her  days  were  already  ended  and 
past ;  as  if  her  own  orb  of  life  had  been  rounded  by  the  brief  span 
of  the  little  existence  that  lay  finished  on  the  bed. 

"When  they  come  in  the  morning  early — very  early — and  find 
us  here,  my  boy  and  me,  don't  let  them  take  him  away  from  me, 
Greta.  We  should  go  together — yes,  both  together;  that's  only 
right,  with  Ralphie  at  my  bosom." 

The  bandage  lay  at  her  feet.  Her  eyes  were  very  red  and  heavy. 
Their  dim  light  seemed  to  come  from  far  away. 

"Only  that,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  softened,  "My  Ralphie  is 
in  heaven." 

Then  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  cried  out  loud,  "But 
I  prayed  to  God  that  I  might  see  my  child  on  earth.  Oh,  how  I 
prayed !  And  God  heard  my  prayer  and  answered  it — but  see ! 
I  saw  him  die." 


END  OF  "THE  BLIND  MOTHBK" 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION 


COPYRIGHT,  1892, 
BY  UNITED  STATES  BOOK  COMPANY. 


COPYRIGHT,  1900, 
BY  STREET  &  SMITH. 


\All  rights 


THE    LAST    CONFESSION 


FATHER,  do  not  leave  me.  Wait !  only  a  little  longer.  You 
can  not  absolve  me?  I  am  not  penitent?  How  can  I  be 
penitent  ?  I  do  not  regret  it  ?  How  can  I  regret  it  ?  I  would 
do  it  again  ?  How  could  I  help  but  do  it  again  ? 

Yes,  yes,  I  know,  I  know !  Who  knows  it  so  well  as  I  ?  It  is 
written  in  the  tables  of  God's  law:  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder!  But 
was  it  murder?  Was  it  crime?  Blood?  Yes,  it  was  the  spilling  of 
blood.  Blood  will  have  blood,  you  say.  But  is  there  no  difference  ? 
Hear  me  out.  Let  me  speak.  It  is  hard  to  remember  all  now — and 
here — lying  here — but  listen — only  listen.  Then  tell  me  if  I  did 
wrong.  No,  tell  me  if  God  Himself  will  not  justify  me — ay,  justify 
me — though  I  outraged  His  edict.  Blasphemy?  Ah,  father,  do 
not  go !  Father ! — 

Speak,  my  son.    I  will  listen.    It  is  my  duty.    Speak. 

It  is  less  than  a  year  since  my  health  broke  down,  but  the  soul 
lives  fast,  and  it  seems  to  me  like  a  lifetime.  I  had  overworked 
myself  miserably.  My  life  as  a  physician  in  London  had  been  a 
hard  one,  but  it  was  not  my  practise  that  had  wrecked  me.  How 
to  perform  that  operation  on  the  throat  was  the  beginning  of  my 
trouble.  You  know  what  happened.  I  mastered  my  problem,  and 
they  called  the  operation  by  my  name.  It  has  brought  me  fame ; 
it  has  made  me  rich ;  it  has  saved  a  thousand  lives,  and  will  save 
ten  thousand  more,  and  yet  I — I — for  taking  one  life — one — under 
conditions — 

Father,  bear  with  me.  I  will  tell  all.  My  nerves  are  burned 
out.  Gloom,  depression,  sleeplessness,  prostration,  sometimes  col- 
lapse, a  consuming  fire  within,  a  paralyzing  frost  without — you 
know  what  it  is — we  call  it  neurasthenia. 

I  watched  the  progress  of  my  disease  and  gave  myself  the  cus- 
tomary treatment.  Hygiene,  diet,  drugs,  electricity,  I  tried  them 
all.  But  neither  dumbbells  nor  Indian  clubs,  neither  walking  nor 
riding,  neither  liberal  food  nor  doses  of  egg  and  brandy,  neither 
musk  nor  ergot  nor  antipyrin,  neither  faradization  nor  galvaniza- 
tion availed  to  lift  the  black  shades  that  hung  over  me  day  and 
night,  and  made  the  gift  of  life  a  mockery.  I  knew  why.  My  work 

(353) 


354  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

possessed  me  like  a  fever.  I  could  neither  do  it  to  my  content  nor 
leave  it  undone.  I  was  drawing  water  in  a  sieve. 

My  wife  sent  for  Gull.  Full  well  I  knew  what  he  would  advise. 
It  was  rest.  I  must  take  six  months'  absolute  holiday,  and,  in  order 
to  cut  myself  off  entirely  from  all  temptations  to  mental  activity, 
I  must  leave  London  and  go  abroad.  Change  of  scene,  of  life,  and 
of  habit,  new  peoples,  new  customs,  new  faiths,  and  a  new  climate — 
these  separately  and  together,  with  total  cessation  of  my  usual 
occupations,  were  to  banish  a  long  series  of  functional  derange- 
ments which  had  for  their  basis  the  exhaustion  of  the  sympathetic 
nervous  system. 

I  was  loth  to  go.  Looking  back  upon  my  condition,  I  see  that 
my  reluctance  was  justified.  To  launch  a  creature  who  was  all 
nerves  into  the  perpetual,  if  trifling,  vexations  of  travel  was  a  mis- 
take, a  folly,  a  madness.  But  I  did  not  perceive  this ;  I  was  think- 
ing only  of  my  home  and  the  dear  souls  from  whom  I  must  be  sep- 
arated. During  the  seven  years  of  our  married  life  my  wife  had 
grown  to  be  more  than  the  object  of  my  love.  That  gentle  sooth- 
ing, that  soft  healing  which  the  mere  presence  of  an  affectionate 
woman  who  is  all  strength  and  courage  may  bring  to  a  man  who 
is  wasted  by  work  or  worry,  my  wife's  presence  had  long  brought 
to  me,  and  I  shrank  from  the  thought  of  scenes  where  she  could 
no  longer  move  about  me,  meeting  my  wishes  and  anticipating  my 
wants. 

This  was  weakness,  and  I  knew  it;  but  I  had  another  weakness 
which  I  did  not  know.  My  boy,  a  little  son  of  six  years  of  age  the 
day  before  I  set  sail,  was  all  the  world  to  me.  Paternal  love  may 
eat  up  all  the  other  passions.  It  was  so  in  my  case.  The  tyranny 
of  my  affection  for  my  only  child  was  even  more  constant  and  un- 
relenting than  the  tyranny  of  my  work.  Nay,  the  two  were  one: 
for  out  of  my  instinct  as  a  father  came  my  strength  as  a  doctor. 
The  boy  had  suffered  from  a  throat  trouble  from  his  birth.  When  he 
was  a  babe  I  delivered  him  from  a  fierce  attack  of  it,  and  when  he 
was  four  I  brought  him  back  from  the  jaws  of  death.  Thus  twice 
I  had  saved  his  life,  and  each  time  that  life  had  become  dearer  to 
me.  But  too  well  I  knew  that  the  mischief  was  beaten  down,  and 
not  conquered.  Some  day  it  would  return  with  awful  virulence. 
To  meet  that  terror  I  wrought  by  day  and  night.  No  sla've  ever 
toiled  so  hard.  I  denied  myself  rest,  curtailed  my  sleep,  and  stole 
from  tranquil  reflection  and  repose  half-hours  and  quarter-hours 
spent  in  the  carriage  going  from  patient  to  patient.  The  attack 
might  come  suddenly,  and  I  must  be  prepared.  I  was  working 
against  time. 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  355 

You  know  what  happened.  The  attack  did  not  come;  my  boy 
continued  well,  but  my  name  became  known  and  my  discovery  es- 
tablished. The  weakness  of  my  own  child  had  given  the  bent  to 
my  studies.  If  I  had  mastered  my  subject  it  was  my  absorbing  love 
of  my  little  one  that  gave  me  the  impulse  and  direction. 

But  I  had  paid  my  penalty.  My  health  was  a  wreck,  and  I 
must  leave  everything  behind  me.  If  it  had  been  possible  to  take 
my  wife  and  boy  along  with  me,  how  different  the  end  might  have 
been !  Should  I  be  lying  here  now — here  on  this  bed — with  you, 
father,  you? — 

We  spent  our  boy's  birthday  with  what  cheer  we  could  com- 
mand. For  my  wife  it  seemed  to  be  a  day  of  quiet  happiness,  hal- 
lowed by  precious  memories — the  dearest  and  most  delicious  that 
a  mother  ever  knew — of  the  babyhood  of  her  boy — his  pretty  lisp, 
his  foolish  prattle,  his  funny  little  ways  and  sayings — and  sweet- 
ened by  the  anticipation  of  the  health  that  was  to  return  to  me  as 
the  result  of  rest  and  change.  The  child  himself  was  bright  and 
gamesome,  and  I  for  my  part  gave  way  to  some  reckless  and  noisy 
jollity. 

Thus  the  hours  passed  until  bedtime,  and  then,  as  I  saw  the 
little  fellow  tucked  up  in  his  crib,  it  crossed  my  mind  for  a  moment 
that  he  looked  less  well  than  usual.  Such  fancies  were  common 
to  me,  and  I  knew  from  long  experience  that  it  was  folly  to  give 
way  to  them.  To  do  so  at  that  time  must  have  been  weakness  too 
pitiful  for  my  manhood.  I  had  already  gone  far  enough  for  my 
own  self-respect.  To  my  old  colleague  and  fellow-student,  Gran- 
ville  Wenman,  I  had  given  elaborate  instructions  for  all  possible 
contingencies. 

If  this  happened  he  was  to  do  that;  if  that  happened  he  was  to 
do  this.  In  case  of  serious  need  he  was  to  communicate  with  me 
by  the  swiftest  means  available,  for  neither  the  width  of  the  earth 
nor  the  wealth  of  the  world,  nor  the  loss  of  all  chances  of  health 
or  yet  life,  should  keep  me  from  hastening  home  if  the  one  hope  of 
my  heart  was  in  peril.  Wenman  had  smiled  a  little  as  in  pity  of 
the  morbidity  that  ran  out  to  meet  so  many  dangers.  I  did  not 
heed  his  good-natured  compassion  or  contempt,  whatever  it  was, 
for  I  knew  he  had  no  children.  I  had  reconciled  myself  in  some 
measure  to  my  absence  from  home,  and  before  my  little  man  was 
awake  in  the  morning  I  was  gone  from  the  house. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  I  should  go  to  Morocco.  Wenman 
had  suggested  that  country  out  of  regard  to  the  freshness  of  its 
life  and  people.  The  East  in  the  West,  the  costumes  of  Arabia,  the 
faiths  of  Mohammed  and  of  Moses,  a  primitive  form  of  govern- 


356  THE   LAST    CONFESSION 

ment,  and  a  social  life  that  might  have  been  proper  to  the  land  of 
Canaan  in  the  days  of  Abraham — such  had  seemed  to  him  and 
others  to  be  an  atmosphere  of  novelty  that  was  likely  to  bring 
spring  and  elasticity  to  the  overstretched  mind  and  nerves  of  a 
victim  of  the  civilization  of  our  tumultuous  century.  But  not  in 
all  the  world  could  fate  have  ferreted  out  for  me  a  scene  more 
certain  to  develop  the  fever  and  fret  of  my  natural  temperament. 
Had  the  choice  fallen  on  any  other  place,  any  dead  or  dying  coun- 
try, any  corner  of  God's  earth  but  that  blighted  and  desolate  land — 

Ah !  bear  with  me,  bear  with  me. 

/  know  it,  my  son.  It  is  near  to  my  own  country.  My  home 
is  in  Spain.  I  came  to  your  England  from  Seville.  Go  on. 

I  sailed  to  Gibraltar  by  a  P.  and  O.  steamer  from  Tilbury,  and 
the  tender  that  took  my  wife  back  to  the  railway  pier  left  little 
in  my  new  condition  to  interest  me.  You  know  what  it  is  to  leave 
home  in  search  of  health.  If  hope  is  before  you,  regret  is  behind. 
When  I  stood  on  the  upper  deck  that  night,  alone,  and  watched  the 
light  of  the  Eddystone  dying  down  over  the  dark  waters,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  success  had  no  solace,  and  fame  no  balm,  and  riches  no 
safety  or  content.  One  reflection  alone  sufficed  to  reconcile  me  to 
where  I  was — the  work  that  had  brought  me  there  was  done  neither 
for  fame  nor  for  riches,  but  at  the  prompting  of  the  best  of  all 
earthly  passions — or  what  seemed  to  be  the  best. 

Three  days  passed,  and  beyond  casual  words  I  had  spoken  to 
no  one  on  the  ship.  But  on  the  fourth  day,  as  we  sailed  within 
sight  of  Finisterre  in  a  calm  sea,  having  crossed  the  Bay  with  com- 
fort, the  word  went  round  that  a  storm-signal  was  hoisted  on  the 
cape.  No  one  who  has  gone  through  an  experience  such  as  that  is 
likely  to  forget  it.  Everybody  on  deck,  the  blanched  faces,  the 
hushed  voices,  the  quick  whispers,  the  eager  glances  around,  the 
interrogations  of  the  officers  on  duty,  and  their  bantering  answers 
belied  by  their  anxious  looks,  then  the  darkening  sky,  the  freshen- 
ing breeze,  the  lowering  horizon,  the  tingling  gloomy  atmosphere 
creeping  down  from  the  mastheads,  and  the  air  of  the  whole  ship, 
above  and  below,  charged,  as  it  were,  with  sudden  electricity.  It 
is  like  nothing  else  in  life  except  the  bugle-call  in  camp,  telling 
those  who  lie  smoking  and  drinking  about  the  fires  that  the  enemy 
is  coming,  and  is  near. 

I  was  standing  on  the  quarterdeck  watching  the  Lascars  stowing 
sails,  battening  down  the  hatches,  clewing  the  lines,  and  making 
everything  snug,  when  a  fellow-passenger  whom  I  had  not  observed 
before  stepped  up  and  spoke.  His  remark  was  a  casual  one,  and  it 
has  gone  from  my  memory.  I  think  it  had  reference  to  the  native 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  357 

seamen,  and  was  meant  as  a  jest  upon  their  lumbering  slowness, 
which  suggested  pitiful  thoughts  to  him  of  what  their  capacity 
must  be  in  a  storm.  But  the  air  of  the  man  much  more  than  his 
words  aroused  and  arrested  my  attention.  It  was  that  of  one  whose 
spirits  had  been  quickened  by  the  new  sense  of  danger.  He  laughed, 
his  eyes  sparkled,  his  tongue  rolled  out  his  light  remarks  with  a 
visible  relish.  I  looked  at  the  man  and  saw  that  he  had  the  soul 
of  a  war-horse.  Tall,  slight,  dark,  handsome,  with  bushy  beard, 
quivering  nostrils,  mobile  mouth,  and  eyes  of  fire,  alive  in  every 
fibre,  and  full  of  unconquerable  energy.  He  appeared  to  be  a  man 
of  thirty  to  thirty-five,  but  proved  to  be  no  more  than  four-and- 
twenty.  I  learned  afterward  that  he  was  an  American,  and  was 
traveling  for  love  of  adventure. 

That  night  we  flew  six  hours  before  the  storm,  but  it  overtook 
our  ship  at  last.  What  befell  us  then  in  the  darkness  of  that  rock- 
bound  coast  I  did  not  know  until  morning.  Can  you  believe  it  ?  I 
took  my  usual  dose  of  a  drug  prescribed  to  me  for  insomnia,  and 
lay  down  to  sleep.  When  I  went  up  on  deck  in  the  late  dawn  of  the 
following  day — the  time  was  spring — the  wind  had  slackened,  and 
the  ship  was  rolling  and  swinging  along  in  a  sea  that  could  not  be 
heard  above  the  beat  and  thud  of  the  engines.  Only  the  memory 
of  last  night's  tempest  lay  around  in  sullen  wave  and  sky — only 
there,  and  in  the  quarters  down  below  of  the  native  seamen  of  our 
ship. 

The  first  face  I  encountered  was  that  of  the  American.  He 
had  been  on  deck  all  night,  and  he  told  me  what  had  happened. 
Through  the  dark  hours  the  storm  had  been  terrible,  and  when  the 
first  dead  light  of  dawn  had  crept  across  from  the  east  the  ship 
had  been  still  tossing  in  great  white  billows.  Just  then  a  number 
of  Lascars  had  been  ordered  aloft  on  some  urgent  duty — I  know 
not  what — and  a  sudden  gust  had  swept  one  of  them  from  a  cross- 
tree  into  the  sea.  Efforts  had  been  made  to  rescue  him,  the  engines 
had  been  reversed,  boats  put  out  and  life-buoys  thrown  into  the 
.water,  but  all  in  vain.  The  man  had  been  swept  away;  he  was 
gone  and  the  ship  had  steamed  on. 

The  disaster  saddened  me  inexpressibly.  I  could  see  the  Lascar 
fall  from  the  rigging,  catch  the  agonizing  glance  of  the  white  eyes  in 
his  black  face  as  he  was  swept  past  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  and  watch 
his  outstretched  arms  as  he  sank  to  his  death  down  and  down  and 
down.  It  seemed  to  me  an  iniquity  that  while  this  had  happened  I 
had  slept.  Perhaps  the  oversensitive  condition  of  my  nerves  was 
at  fault,  but  indeed  I  felt  that,  in  his  way,  in  his  degree,  within 
the  measure  of  his  possibilities,  that  poor  fellow  of  another  skin, 


358  THE  LAST   CONFESSION 

another  tongue,  with  whom  I  had  exchanged  no  word  of  greeting, 
had  that  day  given  his  life  for  my  life. 

How  much  of  such  emotion  I  expressed  at  the  time  it  is  hard 
to  remember  now,  but  that  the  American  gathered  the  bent  of  my 
feelings  was  clear  to  me  by  the  pains  he  was  at  to  show  that  they 
were  uncalled  for,  and  unnatural,  and  false.  What  was  life?  I 
had  set  too  great  a  store  by  it.  The  modern  reverence  for  life  was 
eating  away  the  finest  instincts  of  man's  nature.  Life  was  not  the 
most  sacred  of  our  possessions.  Duty,  justice,  truth,  these  were 
higher  things. 

So  he  talked  that  day  and  the  next  until,  from  thoughts  of  the 
loss  of  the  Lascar,  we  had  drifted  far  into  wider  and  more  perilous 
speculations.  The  American  held  to  his  canon.  War  was  often 
better  than  peace,  and  open  massacre  than  corrupt  tranquillity. 
We  wanted  some  of  the  robust  spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages  in  these 
our  piping  days.  The  talk  turned  on  the  persecution  of  the  Jews 
in  Russia.  The  American  defended  it — a  stern  people  was  purging 
itself  of  an  alien  element  which,  like  an  interminate  tapeworm, 
had  been  preying  on  its  vitals.  The  remedy  was  drastic  but  neces- 
sary; life  was  lost,  but  also  life  was  saved. 

Then  coming  to  closer  quarters  we  talked  of  murder.  The 
American  held  to  the  doctrine  of  Sterne.  It  was  a  hard  case  that 
the  laws  of  the  modern  world  should  not  have  made  any  manner 
of  difference  between  murdering  an  honest  man  and  only  executing 
a  scoundrel.  These  things  should  always  be  rated  ad  valorem.  As 
for  blood  spilled  in  self-defense,  it  was  folly  to  talk  of  it  as  crime. 
Even  the  laws  of  my  own  effeminate  land  justified  the  man  who 
struck  down  the  arm  that  was  raised  to  kill  him;  and  the  mind 
that  reckoned  such  an  act  as  an  offense  was  morbid  and  diseased. 

Such  opinions  were  repugnant  to  me,  and  I  tried  to  resist 
them.  There  was  a  sanctity  about  human  life  which  no  man  should 
dare  to  outrage.  God  gave  it,  and  only  God  should  take  it  away. 
As  for  the  government  of  the  world,  let  it  be  for  better  or  for  worse, 
it  was  in  God's  hands,  and  God  required  the  help  of  no  man. 

My  resistance  was  useless.  The  American  held  to  his  doc- 
trine; it  was  good  to  take  life  in  a  good  cause,  and  if  it  was  good 
for  the  nation,  it  was  good  for  the  individual  man.  The  end 
was  all. 

I  fenced  these  statements  with  what  force  I  could  command, 
and  I  knew  not  how  strongly  my  adversary  had  assailed  me.  Now, 
I  know  too  well  that  his  opinions  sank  deep  into  my  soul.  Only 
too  well  I  know  it  now — now  that — 

We  arrived  at  Gibraltar  the  following  morning,  and  going  up 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  359 

on  deck  in  the  empty  void  of  air  that  follows  on  the  sudden  stop- 
ping of  a  ship's  engines,  I  found  the  American,  amid  a  group  of 
swarthy  Gibraltarians,  bargaining  for  a  boat  to  take  him  to  the 
Mole.  It  turned  out  that  he  was  going  to  Morocco  also,  and  we 
hired  a  boat  together. 

The  morning  was  clear  and  cold;  the  great  broad  rock  looked 
whiter  and  starker  and  more  like  a  gigantic  oyster-shell  than  ever 
against  the  blue  of  the  sky.  There  would  be  no  steamer  for  Tan- 
gier until  the  following  day,  and  we  were  to  put  up  at  the  Spanish 
hotel  called  the  Calpe. 

Immediately  on  landing  I  made  my  way  to  the  post-office  to 
despatch  a  telegram  home  announcing  my  arrival,  and  there  I 
found  two  letters,  which,  having  come  overland,  arrived  in  advance 
of  me.  One  of  them  was  from  Wenman,  telling  me  that  he  had 
called  at  Wimpole  Street  the  morning  after  my  departure  and 
found  all  well  at  my  house;  and  also  enclosing  a  resolution  of 
thanks  and  congratulation  from  my  colleagues  of  the  College  of 
Surgeons  in  relation  to  my  recent  labors,  which  were  said  to  be 
"memorable  in  the  cause  of  humanity  and  science." 

The  other  letter  was  from  my  wife,  a  sweet,  affectionate  little 
note,  cheerful  yet  tender,  written  on  her  return  from  Tilbury,  hint- 
ing that  the  dear  old  house  looked  just  a  trifle  empty  and  as  if  some- 
how it  missed  something,  but  that  our  boy  was  up  and  happy  with  a 
new  toy  that  I  had  left  for  him  as  a  consolation  on  his  awakening — 
a  great  elephant  that  worked  its  trunk  and  roared.  "I  have  just 
asked  our  darling,"  wrote  my  wife,  "what  message  he  would  like 
to  send  you.  'Tell  papa,'  he  answers,  'I'm  all  right,  and  Jumbo's 
all  right,  and  is  he  all  right,  and  will  he  come  werry  quick,  and 
see  him  grunting?'" 

That  night  at  the  Calpe  I  had  some  further  talk  with  the  Amer- 
ican. Young  as  he  was  he  had  been  a  great  Eastern  traveler. 
Egypt,  Arabia,  Syria,  the  Holy  Land — he  knew  them  all.  For  his 
forthcoming  sojourn  in  Morocco  he  had  prepared  himself  with 
elaborate  care.  The  literature  of  travel  in  Barbary  is  voluminous, 
but  he  had  gone  through  the  best  of  it.  With  the  faith  of  Islam 
he  had  long  been  familiar,  and  of  the  corrupt  and  tyrannical  form 
of  government  of  Mulai  el  Hassan  and  his  kaids  and  kadis  he  had 
an  intimate  knowledge.  He  had  even  studied  the  language  of  the 
Moorish  people — the  Moroccan  Arabic,  which  is  a  dialect  of  the 
language  of  the  Koran — and  so  that  he  might  hold  intercourse  with' 
the  Sephardic  Jews  also,  who  people  the  Mellahs  of  Morocco,  he 
had  mastered  the  Spanish  language  as  well. 

This  extensive  equipment,  sufficient  to  start  a  crusade  or  to 


360  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

make  a  revolution,  was  meant  to  do  more  than  provide  him  with 
adventure.  His  intention  was  to  see  the  country  and  its  customs, 
to  observe  the  manners  of  the  people  and  the  ordinances  of  their 
religion.  "I  shall  get  into  the  palaces  and  the  prisons  of  the 
Kasbahs,"  he  said;  "yes,  and  the  mosques  and  the  saints'  houses, 
and  the  harems  also." 

Little  as  I  knew  then  of  the  Moors  and  their  country,  I  fore- 
saw the  dangers  of  such  an  enterprise,  and  I  warned  him  against 
it  "You  will  get  yourself  into  awkward  corners,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  I  shall  get  myself  out  of  them." 

I  remembered  his  doctrine  propounded  on  the  ship,  and  I  saw 
that  he  was  a  man  of  resolution,  but  I  said,  "Remember,  you  are 
going  to  the  land  of  this  people  for  amusement  alone.  It  is  not 
necessity  that  thrusts  you  upon  their  prejudice,  their  superstition, 
their  fanaticism." 

"True,"  he  said,  "but  if  I  get  into  trouble  among  them  it  will 
not  be  my  amusements  but  my  liberty  or  my  life  that  will  be  in 
danger." 

"Then  in  such  a  case  you  will  stick  at  nothing  to  plow  your 
jray  out?" 

"Nothing." 

I  laughed,  for  my  mind  refused  to  believe  him,  and  we  laughed 
noisily  together,  with  visions  of  bloody  daggers  before  the  eyes 
of  both. 

Father,  my  heart  believed:  silently,  secretly,  unconsciously,  it 
drank  in  the  poison  of  his  thought — drank  it  in — ay — 

Next  day,  about  noon,  we  sailed  for  Tangier.  Our  ship  was 
the  "Jackal,"  a  little  old  iron  steam-tug,  battered  by  time  and 
tempest,  clamped  and  stayed  at  every  side,  and  just  holding  together 
as  by  the  grace  of  God.  The  storm  which  we  had  outraced  from 
Finisterre  had  now  doubled  Cape  St.  Vincent,  and  the  sea  was  roll- 
ing heavily  in  the  Straits.  We  saw  nothing  of  this  until  we  had 
left  the  bay  and  were  standing  out  from  Tarifa;  nor  would  it  be 
worthy  of  mention  now  but  that  it  gave  me  my  first  real  under- 
standing of  the  tremendous  hold  that  the  faith  or  the  fanaticism  of 
the  Moorish  people — call  it  what  you  will— has  upon  their  char- 
acters and  lives. 

The  channel  at  that  point  is  less  than  twenty  miles  wide,  but  we 
were  more  than  five  hours  crossing  it.  Our  little  crazy  craft 
labored  terribly  in  the  huge  breakers  that  swept  inward  from  the 
Atlantic.  Pitching  until  the  foredeck  was  covered,  rolling  until 
her  boats  dipped  in  the  water,  creaking,  shuddering,  leaping,  she 
had  enough  to  do  to  keep  afloat. 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  361 

With  the  American  I  occupied  the  bridge  between  the  paddle- 
boxes,  which  served  as  a  saloon  for  first-class  passengers;  and 
below  us  in  the  open  hold  of  the  after-deck  a  number  of  Moors 
sat  huddled  together  among  cattle  and  sheep  and  baskets  of  fowl. 
They  were  Pilgrims,  Hadjis,  returning  from  Mecca  by  way  of  Gib- 
raltar, and  their  behavior  during  the  passage  was  marvelous  in  its 
callousness  to  the  sense  of  peril.  They  wrangled,  quarreled, 
snarled  at  each  other,  embraced,  kissed,  laughed  together,  made 
futile  attempts  to  smoke  their  keef-pipes,  and  quarreled,  barked, 
and  bleated  again. 

"Surely,"  I  said,  "these  people  are  either  wondrously  brave 
or  they  have  no  sense  of  the  solemnity  of  death." 

"Neither,"  said  the  American ;  "they  are  merely  fatalists  by  vir- 
tue of  their  faith.  'If  it  is  not  now,  it  is  to  come;  if  it  is  not  to 
come  then  it  is  now.' " 

"There  is  a  sort  of  bravery  in  that,"  I  answered. 

"And  cowardice,  too,"  said  the  American. 

The  night  had  closed  in  when  we  dropped  anchor  by  the  ruins 
of  the  Mole  at  Tangier,  and  I  saw  no  more  of  the  white  town  than 
I  had  seen  of  it  from  the  Straits.  But  if  my  eyes  failed  in  the 
darkness  my  other  senses  served  me  only  too  well.  The  shrieking 
and  yelping  of  the  boatloads  of  Moors  and  negroes  who  clambered 
aboard  to  relieve  us  of  our  luggage,  the  stench  of  the  town  sewers 
that  emptied  into  the  bay — these  were  my  first  impressions  of  the 
gateway  to  the  home  of  Islam. 

The  American  went  through  the  turmoil  with  composure  and 
an  air  of  command,  and  having  seen  to  my  belongings  as  well  as  his 
own,  passing  them  through  the  open  office  at  the  water-gate,  where 
two  solemn  Moors  in  white  sat  by  the  light  of  candles,  in  the  receipt 
of  customs,  he  parted  from  me  at  the  foot  of  the  street  that  begins 
with  the  Grand  Mosque,  and  is  the  main  artery  of  the  town,  for  he 
had  written  for  rooms  to  the  hotel  called  the  Villa  de  France,  and 
I,  before  leaving  England,  had  done  the  same  to  the  hotel  called 
the  Continental. 

Thither  I  was  led  by  a  bare-footed  courier  in  white  jellab  and 
red  tarboosh,  amid  sights  and  sounds  of  fascinating  strangeness: 
the  low  drone  of  men's  voices  singing  their  evening  prayers  in  the 
mosques,  the  tinkling  of  the  bells  of  men  selling  water  out  of  goats' 
skins,  the  "Allah"  of  blind  beggars  crouching  at  the  gates,  the 
"Arrah"  of  the  mule  drivers,  and  the  hooded  shapes  going  by  in 
the  gloom  or  squatting  in  the  red  glare  of  the  cafes  without  win- 
dows or  doors  and  open  to  the  streets. 

I  met  the  American  in  the  Sok— the  market-place— the  follow- 
16  Vol.  II. 


362  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

ing  day,  and  he  took  me  up  to  his  hotel  to  see  some  native  costumes 
which  he  had  bought  by  way  of  preparations  for  his  enterprise. 
They  were  haiks  and  soolhams,  jellabs,  kaftans,  slippers,  rosaries, 
korans,  sashes,  satchels,  turbans,  and  tarbooshes — blue,  white,  yel- 
low, and  red — all  right  and  none  too  new,  for  he  had  purchased 
them  not  at  the  bazaars,  but  from  the  son  of  a  learned  Moor,  a 
Taleb,  who  had  been  cast  into  a  prison  by  a  usurer  Jew. 

"In  these,"  said  he,  "I  mean  to  go  everywhere,  and  I'll  defy  the 
devil  himself  to  detect  me." 

"Take  care,"  I  said,  "take  care." 

He  laughed  and  asked  me  what  my  own  plans  were.  I  told  him 
that  I  would  remain  in  Tangier  until  I  received  letters  from  home, 
and  then  push  on  toward  Fez. 

"I'll  see  you  there,"  he  said;  "but  if  I  do  not  hail  you,  please 
do  not  know  me.  Good-by." 

"Good-by,"  I  said,  and  so  we  parted. 

I  stayed  ten  days  longer  in  Tangier,  absorbed  in  many  reflec- 
tions, of  which  the  strangest  were  these  two :  first,  the  Moors  were 
the  most  religious  people  in  the  world,  and  next,  that  they  were  the 
most  wickedly  irreligious  and  basely  immoral  race  on  God's  earth. 
I  was  prompted  to  the  one  by  observations  of  the  large  part  which 
Allah  appears  to  play  in  all  affairs  of  Moorish  life,  and  to  the 
other  by  clear  proof  of  the  much  larger  part  which  the  devil  enacts 
in  Allah's  garments.  On  the  one  side  prayers,  prayers,  prayers, 
the  moodden,  the  moodden,  the  moodden,  the  mosque,  the  mosque, 
the  mosque.  "Allah"  from  the  mouths  of  the  beggars,  "Allah"  from 
the  lips  of  the  merchants,  "Mohammed"  on  the  inscriptions  at  the 
gate,  the  "Koran"  on  the  scarfs  hung  out  at  the  bazaars  and  on  the 
satchels  hawked  in  the  streets.  And  on  the  other  side  shameless 
lying,  cheating,  usury,  buying  and  selling  of  justice,  cruelty  and 
inhumanity;  raw  sores  on  the  backs  of  the  asses,  blood  in  the 
streets,  blood,  blood,  blood  everywhere  and  secret  corruption  in- 
describable. 

Nevertheless  I  concluded  that  my  nervous  malady  must  have 
given  me  the  dark  glasses  through  which  everything  looked  so 
foul,  and  I  resolved,  in  the  interests  of  health,  to  push  on  toward 
Fez  as  soon  as  letters  arrived  from  home  assuring  me  that  all 
were  well  and  happy  there. 

But  no  letters  came,  and  at  the  arrival  of  every  fresh  mail  from 
Cadiz  and  from  Gibraltar  my  impatience  increased.  At  length  I 
decided  to  wait  no  longer,  and,  leaving  instructions  that  my  letters 
^should  be  sent  on  after  me  to  the  capital,  I  called  on  the  English 
Consul  for  such  official  documents  as  were  needful  for  my  journey. 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  363 

When  these  had  been  produced  from  the  Kasbah,  and  I  was 
equipped  for  travel,  the  Consul  inquired  of  me  how  I  liked  the 
Moors  and  their  country.  I  described  my  conflicting  impressions, 
and  he  said  both  were  right  in  their  several  ways. 

"The  religion  of  the  Moor,"  said  he,  "is  genuine  of  its  kind, 
though  it  does  not  put  an  end  to  the  vilest  Government  on  earth 
and  the  most  loathsome  immoralities  ever  practised  by  man.  Islam 
is  a  sacred  thing  to  him.  He  is  proud  of  it,  jealous  of  it,  and  pre- 
pared to  die  for  it.  Half  his  hatred  of  the  unbeliever  is  fear  that 
the  Nazarene  or  the  Jew  is  eager  to  show  his  faith  some  dishonor. 
And  that,"  added  the  Consul,  "reminds  me  to  offer  you  one  word 
of  warning:  avoid  the  very  shadow  of  offense  to  the  religion  of 
these  people;  do  not  pry  into  their  beliefs;  do  not  take  note  of 
their  ordinances ;  pass  their  mosques  and  saints'  houses  with  down- 
cast eyes,  if  need  be;  in  a  word,  let  Islam  alone." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  counsel,  and,  remembering  the  American, 
I  inquired  what  the  penalty  would  be  if  a  foreign  subject  offended 
the  religion  of  this  people.  The  Consul  lifted  his  eyebrows  and 
shoulders  together,  with  an  eloquence  of  reply  that  required  no 
words. 

"But  might  not  a  stranger,"  I  asked,  "do  so  unwittingly?" 

"Truly,"  he  answered,  "and  so  much  the  worse  for  his  ig- 
norance." 

"Is  British  life,  then,"  I  said,  "at  the  mercy  of  the  first  ruffian 
with  a  dagger?  Is  there  no  power  in  solemn  treaties?" 

"What  are  treaties,"  he  said,  "against  fanaticism?  Give  the 
one  a  wide  berth  and  you'll  have  small  need  for  the  other." 

After  that  he  told  me  something  of  certain  claims  just  settled 
for  long  imprisonment  inflicted  by  the  Moorish  authorities  on  men 
trading  under  the  protection  of  the  British  flag.  It  was  an  abject 
story  of  barbarous  cruelty,  broken  health,  shattered  lives,  and 
wrecked  homes,  atoned  for  after  weary  procrastination,  in  the  man- 
ner of  all  Oriental  courts,  by  a  sorry  money  payment.  The  moral 
of  it  all  was  conveyed  by  the  Consul  in  the  one  word  with  which 
he  parted  from  me  at  his  gate.  "Respect  the  fanaticism  of  these 
fanatics,"  he  said,  "as  you  would  value  your  liberty  or  your  life, 
and  keep  out  of  a  Moorish  prison— remember  that,  remember 
that!" 

I  did  remember  it.  Every  day  of  my  travels  I  remembered  it. 
I  remembered  it  at  the  most  awful  moment  of  my  life.  If  I  had  not 
remembered  it  then,  should  I  be  lying  here  now  with  that— with" 
that— behind  me!  Ah,  wait,  wait! 

Little  did  I  expect  when  I  left  the  Consul  to  light  so  soon  upon 


364  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

a  terrible  illustration  of  his  words.  With  my  guide  and  interpreter, 
a  Moorish  soldier  lent  to  me  by  the  authorities  in  return  for  two 
pesetas  (one  shilling  and  ninepence)  a  day,  I  strolled  into  the 
greater  Sok,  the  market-place  outside  the  walls.  It  was  Friday, 
the  holy  day  of  the  Moslems,  somewhere  between  one  and  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  body  of  the  Moors  having  newly 
returned  from  their  one-hour  observances  in  the  mosques,  had  re- 
sumed, according  to  their  wont,  their  usual  occupations.  The 
day  was  fine  and  warm,  a  bright  sun  was  shining,  and  the  Sok 
at  the  time  when  we  entered  it  was  a  various  and  animated 
scene. 

Dense  crowds  of  hooded  figures,  clad  chiefly  in  white — soiled  or 
dirty  white — men  in  jellabs,  women  enshrouded  in  blankets,  bare- 
footed girls,  boys  with  shaven  polls,  water-carriers  with  their 
tinkling  bells,  snake-charmers,  story-tellers,  jugglers,  preachers, 
and  then  donkeys,  nosing  their  way  through  the  throng,  mules  lift' 
ing  their  necks  above  the  people's  heads,  and  camels  munching  oats 
and  fighting — it  was  a  wilderness  of  writhing  forms  and  a  babel  of 
shrieking  noises. 

With  my  loquacious  Moor  I  pushed  my  way  along  past  booths 
and  stalls  until  I  came  to  a  whitewashed  structure  with  a  white  flag 
floating  over  it,  that  stood  near  the  middle  of  the  market-place. 
It  was  a  roofless  place,  about  fifteen  feet  square,  and  something  like 
a  little  sheepfold,  but  having  higher  walls.  Through  the  open  door- 
way I  saw  an  inner  enclosure,  out  of  which  a  man  came  forward. 
He  was  a  wild-eyed  creature  in  tattered  garments,  and  dirty,  di- 
sheveled, and  malevolent  of  face. 

"See,"  said  my  guide,  "see,  my  lord,  a  Moorish  saint's  house. 
Look  at  the  flag.  So  shall  my  lord  know  a  saint's  house.  Here  rest 
the  bones  of  Sidi  Gali,  and  that  is  the  saint  that  guards  them.  A 
holy  man,  yes,  a  holy  man.  Moslems  pay  him  tribute.  Sacred 
place,  yes,  sacred.  No  Nazarene  may  enter  it.  But  Moselms,  yes, 
Moslems  may  fly  here  for  sanctuary.  Life  to  the  Moslem,  death 
to  the  Nazarene.  So  it  is." 

My  soldier  was  rattling  on  in  this  way  when  I  saw  coming  in 
the  sunlight  down  the  hillside  of  which  the  Sok  is  the  foot  a  com- 
pany of  some  eight  or  ten  men,  whose  dress  and  complexion  were 
unlike  those  of  the  people  gathered  there.  They  were  a  band  of 
warlike  persons,  swarthy,  tall,  lithe,  sinewy,  with  heads  clean 
shaven  save  for  one  long  lock  that  hung  from  the  crown,  each 
carrying  a  gun  with  barrel  of  prodigious  length  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  also  armed  with  a  long  naked  Reefian  knife  stuck  in  the  scarf 
that  served  him  for  a  belt. 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  365 

They  were  Berbers,  the  descendants  of  the  race  that  peopled 
Barbary  before  the  Moors  set  foot  in  it,  between  whom  and  the 
Moors  there  is  a  long-continued,  suppressed,  but  ineradicable  en- 
mity. From  their  mountain  homes  these  men  had  come  to  the  town 
that  day  on  their  pleasure  or  their  business,  and  as  they  entered  it 
they  were  at  no  pains  to  conceal  their  contempt  for  the  townspeople 
and  their  doings. 

Swaggering  along  with  long  strides,  they  whooped  and  laughed 
and  plowed  their  way  through  the  crowd  over  bread  and  vegetables 
spread  out  on  the  ground,  and  the  people  fell  back  before  them  with 
muttered  curses  until  they  were  come  near  to  the  saint's  house, 
beside  which  I  myself  with  my  guide  was  standing.  Then  I  saw 
that  the  keeper  of  the  saint's  house,  the  half-distraught  creature 
whom  I  had  just  observed,  was  spitting  out  at  them  some  bitter  and 
venomous  words. 

Clearly  they  all  heard  him,  and  most  of  them  laughed  derisively 
and  pushed  on.  But  one  of  the  number — a  young  Berber  with  eyes 
of  fire — drew  up  suddenly  and  made  some  answer  in  hot  and  rapid 
words.  The  man  of  the  saint's  house  spoke  again,  showing  his 
teeth  as  he  did  so  in  a  horrible  grin ;  and  at  the  next  instant,  almost 
quicker  than  my  eyes  could  follow  the  swift  movement  of  his 
hands,  the  Berber  had  plucked  his  long  knife  from  his  belt  and 
plunged  it  into  the  keeper's  breast. 

I  saw  it  all.  The  man  fell  at  my  feet,  and  was  dead  in  an  in- 
stant. In  another  moment  the  police  of  the  market  had  laid  hold 
of  the  murderer,  and  he  was  being  hauled  off  to  his  trial.  "Come," 
whispered  my  guide,  and  he  led  me  by  short  cuts  through  the  nar- 
row lanes  to  the  Kasbah. 

In  an  open  alcove  of  the  castle  I  found  two  men  in  stainless  blue 
jellabs  and  spotless  white  turbans,  squatting  on  rush  mats  at  either 
foot  of  the  horse-shoe  arch.  These  were  the  judges,  the  Kadi  and 
his  Khalifa,  sitting  in  session  in  the  hall  of  justice. 

There  was  a  tumult  of  many  voices  and  of  hurrying  feet;  and 
presently  the  police  entered,  holding  their  prisoner  between  them, 
and  followed  by  a  vast  concourse  of  townspeople.  I  held  my 
ground  in  front  of  the  alcove ;  the  Berber  was  brought  up  near  to 
my  side,  and  I  saw  and  heard  all. 

"This  man,"  said  one  of  the  police,  "killed  so-and-so,  of  Sidi 
Gali's  saint's  house." 

"When?"  said  the  Kadi. 

"This  moment,"  said  the  police. 

"How?"  said  the  Kadi. 

"With  this  knife,"  said  the  police. 


366  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

The  knife,  stained,  and  still  wet,  was  handed  to  the  judge.  He 
shook  it,  and  asked  the  prisoner  one  question :  "Why  ?" 

Then  the  Berber  flung  himself  on  his  knees — his  shaven  head 
brushed  my  hand — and  began  to  plead  extenuating  circumstances. 
"It  is  true,  my  lord,  I  killed  him,  but  he  called  me  dog  and  infidel, 
and  spat  at  me — " 

The  Kadi  gave  back  the  knife  and  waved  his  hand.  "Take  him 
away,"  he  said. 

That  was  all,  as  my  guide  interpreted  it.  "Come,"  he  whis- 
pered again,  and  he  led  me  by  a  passage  into  a  sort  of  closet  where 
a  man  lay  on  a  mattress.  This  was  the  porch  to  the  prison,  and  the 
man  on  the  mattress  was  the  jailer.  In  one  wall  there  was  a  low 
door,  barred  and  clamped  with  iron,  and  having  a  round  peephole 
grated  across. 

At  the  next  instant  the  police  brought  in  their  prisoner.  The 
jailer  rattled  a  big  key  in  the  lock,  the  low  door  swung  open,  I  *aw 
within  a  dark  den  full  of  ghostly  figures  dragging  chains  at  their 
ankles;  a  foul  stench  came  out  of  it,  the  prisoner  bent  his  head 
and  was  pushed  in,  the  door  slammed  back — and  that  was  the 
end.  Everything  occurred  in  no  more  time  than  it  takes  to 
tell  it. 

"Is  that  all  his  trial  ?"  I  asked. 

"All,"  said  my  guide. 

"How  long  will  he  lie  there?" 

"Until  death." 

"But,"  I  said,  "I  have  heard  that  a  Kadi  of  your  country  may 
be  bribed  to  liberate  a  murderer." 

"Ah,  my  lord  is  right,"  said  my  guide,  "but  not  the  murderer 
of  a  saint." 

Less  than  five  minutes  before  I  had  seen  the  stalwart  young 
Berber  swaggering  down  the  hillside  in  the  afternoon  sunshine. 
Now  he  was  in  the  gloom  of  the  noisome  dungeon,  with  no  hope  of 
ever  again  looking  upon  the  light  of  day,  doomed  to  drag  out  an 
existence  worse  than  death,  and  all  for  what?  For  taking  life? 
No,  no,  no — life  in  that  land  is  cheap,  cheaper  than  it  ever  was  in 
the  Middle  Ages — but  for  doing  dishonor  to  a  superstition  of  the 
faith  of  Islam. 

I  remembered  the  American,  and  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  this 
summary  justice.  Next  morning,  as  my  tentmen  and  muleteers 
were  making  ready  to  set  out  for  Fez,  my  soldier-guide  brought  me 
a  letter  which  had  come  by  the  French  steamer  by  way  of  Malaga. 
It  was  from  home ;  a  brief  note  from  my  wife,  with  no  explanation 
of  her  prolonged  silence,  merely  saying  that  all  was  as  usual  at 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  367 

Wimpole  Street,  and  not  mentioning  our  boy  at  all.  The  omission 
troubled  me,  the  brevity  and  baldness  of  the  message  filled  me 
with  vague  concern,  and  I  had  half  a  mind  to  delay  my  inland 
jourirey.  Would  that  I  had  done  so!  Would  that  I  had!  Oh, 
would  that  I  had ! 

Terrible,  my  son,  terrible!  A  blighted  and  desolated  land.  But 
even  worse  than  its  own  people  are  the  renegades  it  takes  from 
mine.  Ah,  I  knew  one  such  long  ago.  An  outcast,  a  pariah,  a 
shedder  of  blood,  an  apostate.  But  go  on,  go  on. 


368  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 


II 

FATHER,  what  voice  was  it  that  rang  in  my  ears  and  cried, 
"Stay,  do  not  travel ;  all  your  past  from  the  beginning  until  to-day, 
all  your  future  from  to-day  until  the  end,  hangs  on  your  action  now ; 
go,  and  your  past  is  a  waste,  your  fame  a  mockery,  your  success 
a  reproach;  remain,  and  your  future  is  peace  and  happiness  and 
content!"  What  voice,  father,  what  voice? 

I  shut  my  ears  to  it,  and  six  days  afterward  I  arrived  at  Fez. 
My  journey  had  impressed  two  facts  upon  my  mind  with  startling 
vividness;  first,  that  the  Moor  would  stick  at  nothing  in  his  jeal- 
ousy of  the  honor  of  his  faith,  and  next,  that  I  was  myself  a 
changed  and  coarsened  man.  I  was  reminded  of  the  one  when  in 
El  Kassar  I  saw  an  old  Jew  beaten  in  the  open  streets  because 
he  had  not  removed  his  slippers  and  walked  barefoot  as  he  passed 
the  front  of  a  mosque ;  and  again  in  Wazzan,  when  I  witnessed  the 
welcome  given  to  the  Grand  Shereef  on  his  return  from  his  home 
in  Tangier  to  his  house  in  the  capital  of  his  province.  The  Jew 
was  the  chief  usurer  of  the  town,  and  had  half  the  Moorish  in- 
habitants in  his  toils;  yet  his  commercial  power  had  counted  for 
nothing  against  the  honor  of  Islam.  "I,"  said  he  to  me  that  night 
in  the  Jewish  inn,  the  Fondak,  "I,  who  could  clap  every  man  of 
them  in  the  Kasbah,  and  their  masters  with  them,  for  moneys  they 
owe  me,  I  to  be  treated  like  a  dog  by  these  scurvy  sons  of  Ishmael 
— God  of  Jacob!"  The  Grand  Shereef  was  a  drunkard,  a  game- 
ster, and  worse.  There  was  no  ordinance  of  Mohammed  which 
he  had  not  openly  outraged,  yet  because  he  stood  to  the  people  as 
the  descendant  of  the  Prophet,  and  the  father  of  the  faith,  they 
groveled  on  the  ground  before  him  and  kissed  his  robes,  his  knees, 
his  feet,  his  stirrups,  and  the  big  hoofs  of  the  horse  that  carried 
him.  As  for  myself,  I  realized  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  country 
had  corrupted  me,  when  I  took  out  from  my  baggage  a  curved 
knife  in  its  silver-mounted  sheath,  which  I  had  bought  of  a  hawker 
at  Tangier,  and  fixed  it  prominently  in  the  belt  of  my  Norfolk 
jacket. 

The  morning  after  my  arrvial  in  Fez  I  encountered  my  Amer- 
ican companion  of  the  voyage.  Our  meeting  was  a  strange  one. 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  369 

I  had  rambled  aimlessly  with  my  guide  through  the  new  town  into 
the  old  until  I  had  lighted  by  chance  upon  the  slave  market  in 
front  of  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  Grand  Mosque,  and  upon  a  human 
auction  which  was  then  proceeding.  No  scene  so  full  of  shame  had 
I  ever  beheld,  but  the  fascination  of  the  spectacle  held  me,  and  I 
stood  and  watched  and  listened.  The  slave  being  sold  was  a 
black  girl,  and  she  was  beautiful  according  to  the  standard 
of  her  skin,  bareheaded,  barefooted,  and  clad  as  lightly  over 
her  body  as  decency  allowed,  so  as  to  reveal  the  utmost  of 
her  charms. 

"Now,  brothers,"  cried  the  salesman,  "look,  see"  (pinching  the 
girl's  naked  arms  and  rolling  his  jeweled  fingers  from  her  chin 
downward  over  her  bare  neck  on  to  her  bosom),  "sound  of  wind 
and  limb,  and  with  rosy  lips,  fit  for  the  kisses  of  a  king — how 
much  ?" 

"A  hundred  dollars,"  cried  a  voice  out  of  the  crowd.  I  thought 
I  had  heard  the  voice  before,  and  looked  up  to  see  who  had  spoken. 
It  was  a  tall  man  with  haik  over  his  turban,  and  blue  selam  on 
top  of  a  yellow  kaftan. 

"A  hundred  dollars  offered,"  cried  the  salesman,  "only  a  hun- 
dred. Brothers,  now's  the  chance  for  all  true  believers." 

"A  hundred  and  five,"  cried  another  voice. 

"A  hundred  and  ten." 

"A  hundred  and  fifteen." 

"A  hundred  and  fifteen  for  this  jewel  of  a  girl,"  cried  the  sales- 
man. "It's  giving  her  away,  brothers.  By  the  prophets,  if  you  are 
not  quick  I'll  keep  her  for  myself.  Come,  look  at  her,  Sidi.  Isn't 
she  good  enough  for  a  sultan?  The  Prophet  (God  rest  him)  would 
have  leaped  at  her.  He  loved  sweet  women  as  much  as  he  loved 
sweet  odors.  Now,  for  the  third  and  last  time — how  much?  Re- 
member, I  guarantee  her  seventeen  years  of  age,  sound,  strong, 
plump,  and  sweet." 

"A  hundred  and  twenty,"  cried  the  voice  I  had  heard  first.  I 
looked  up  at  the  speaker  again.  It  was  the  American  in  his  Moor- 
ish costume. 

I  could  bear  no  more  of  the  sickening  spectacle,  and  as  I  turned 
aside  with  my  interpreter,  I  was  conscious  that  my  companion  of 
the  voyage  was  following  me.  When  we  came  to  some  dark  arches 
that  divided  Old  Fez  from  New  Fez  the  American  spoke,  and  I  sent 
my  interpreter  ahead. 

"You  see  I  am  giving  myself  full  tether  in  this  execrable  land," 
he  said. 

"Indeed  you  are,"  I  answered. 


370  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

"Well,  as  the  Romans  in  Rome,  you  know — it  was  what  I  came 
for,"  he  said. 

"Take  care,"  I  replied.    "Take  care." 

He  drew  up  shortly  and  said,  "By  the  way,  I  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  meet  you." 

I  thought  he  ought,  but  for  courtesy  I  asked  him  why. 

"Because,"  he  said,  "I  have  failed  to  act  up  to  my  prin- 
ciples." 

"In  what?"  I  inquired. 

"In  saving  the  life  of  a  scoundrel  at  the  risk  of  my  own,"  he 
answered. 

Then  he  told  me  his  story.  "I  left  Tangier,"  he  said,  "with  four 
men  in  my  caravan,  but  it  did  not  suit  me  to  bring  them  into  Fez, 
so  I  dismissed  them  a  day's  ride  from  here,  paying  in  full  for  the 
whole  journey  and  making  a  present  over.  My  generosity  was  a 
blunder.  The  Moor  can  not  comprehend  an  act  of  disinterested 
kindness,  and  I  saw  the  ruffians  lay  their  heads  together  to  find  out 
what  it  could  mean.  Three  of  them  gave  it  up  and  went  off  home, 
but  the  fourth  determined  to  follow  the  trace.  His  name  was 
Larby." 

Larby!  El  Arby,  my  son?  Did  you  say  El  Arby?  Of  Tan- 
gier, too?  A  Moor?  Or  was  he  a  Spanish  renegade  turned  Mus- 
lim? But  no  matter — no  matter. 

"He  was  my  guide,"  said  the  American,  "and  a  most  brazen 
hypocrite,  always  cheating  me.  I  let  him  do  so,  it  amused  me — • 
always  lying  to  my  face,  and  always  fumbling  his  beads — 'God  for- 
give me !  God  forgive  me' — an  appropriate  penance,  you  know  the 
way  of  it.  'Peace,  Sidi !'  said  the  rascal :  'Farewell !  Allah  send 
we  meet  in  Paradise.'  But  the  devil  meant  that  we  should  meet 
before  that.  We  have  met.  It  was  a  hot  moment.  Do  you  know 
the  Hamadsha  Mosque?  It  is  a  place  in  a  side  street  sacred  to  the 
preaching  of  a  fanatical  follower  of  one  Sidi  AH  bin  Hamdoosh, 
and  to  certain  wild  dances  executed  in  a  glass  and  fire  eating 
frenzy.  I  thought  I  should  like  to  hear  a  Moorish  D.  L.  Moody, 
and  one  day  I  went  there.  As  I  was  going  in  I  met  a  man  coming 
out.  It  was  Larby.  'Beeba !'  he  whispered,  with  a  tragic  start — 
that  was  his  own  name  for  me  on  the  journey.  'Keep  your  tongue 
between  your  teeth/  I  whispered  back.  'I  was  Beeba  yesterday, 
to-day  I'm  Sidi  Mohammed.'  Then  I  entered,  I  spread  my  prayer- 
mat,  chanted  my  first  Sura,  listened  to  a  lusty  sermon,  and  came 
out.  There,  as  I  expected,  in  the  blind  lane  leading  from  the 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  371 

Hamadsha  to  the  town  was  Larby  waiting  for  me.  'Beeba/  said 
he,  with  a  grin,  'you  play  a  double  hand  of  cards.'  'Then/  said  I, 
'take  care  I  don't  trump  your  trick.'  The  rascal  had  thought  I 
might  bribe  him,  and  when  he  knew  that  I  would  not  I  saw  murder 
in  his  face.  He  had  conceived  the  idea  of  betraying  me  at  the  next 
opportunity.  At  that  moment  he  was  as  surely  aiming  at  my  life  as 
if  he  had  drawn  his  dagger  and  stabbed  me.  It  was  then  that  I 
disgraced  my  principles." 

"How?  how?"  I  said,  though  truly  I  had  little  need  to  ask. 

"We  were  alone,  I  tell  you,  in  a  blind  lane,"  said  the  American ; 
"but  I  remembered  stories  the  man  had  told  me  of  his  children. 
'Little  Hoolia,'  he  called  his  daughter,  a  pretty,  black-eyed  mite  of 
six,  who  always  watched  for  him  when  he  was  away." 

I  was  breaking  into  perspiration.  "Do  you  mean,"  I  said,  "that 
you  should  have — " 

"I  mean  that  I  should  have  killed  the  scoundrel  there  and  then !" 
said  the  American. 

"God  forbid  it!"  I  cried,  and  my  hair  rose  from  my  scalp  in 
horror. 

"Why  not?"  said  the  American.  "It  would  have  been  an  act 
of  self-defense.  The  man  meant  to  kill  me.  He  will  kill  me  still 
if  I  give  him  the  chance.  What  is  the  difference  between  murder 
in  a  moment  and  murder  after  five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty  days  ?  Only 
that  one  is  murder  in  hot  blood  and  haste  and  the  other  is  murder 
in  cold  blood  and  by  stealth.  Is  it  life  that  you  think  so  pre- 
cious? Then  why  should  I  value  his  life  more  than  I  value 
my  own?" 

I  shivered,  and  could  say  nothing. 

"You  think  me  a  monster,"  said  the  American,  "but  remember, 
since  we  left  England  the  atmosphere  has  changed." 

"Remember,  too,"  I  said,  "that  this  man  can  do  you  no 
harm  unless  you  intrude  yourself  upon  his  superstitions  again. 
Leave  the  country  immediately;  depend  upon  it,  he  is  following 
you." 

"That's  not  possible,"  said  the  American,  "for  7  am  following 
him.  Until  I  come  up  with  him  I  can  do  nothing,  and  my  exist- 
ence is  not  worth  a  pin's  purchase." 

I  shuddered,  and  we  parted.  My  mind  told  me  that  he  was 
right,  but  my  heart  clamored  above  the  voice  of  reason  and  said, 
"You  could  not  do  it,  no,  not  to  save  a  hundred  lives." 

Ah,  father,  how  little  we  know  ourselves — how  little,  oh,  how 
little !  When  I  think  that  he  shrank  back — he  who  held  life  so 
cheap — while  7 — I  who  held  it  so  dear,  so  sacred,  so  god-like — 


372  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

Bear  with  me ;  I  will  tell  all. 

I  met  the  American  at  intervals  during  the  next  six  days.  We 
did  not  often  speak,  but  as  we  passed  in  the  streets — he  alone,  I 
always  with  my  loquacious  interpreter — I  observed  with  dread  the 
change  that  the  shadow  of  death  hanging  over  a  man's  head  can 
bring  to  pass  in  his  face  and  manner.  He  grew  thin  and  sallow  and 
wild-eyed.  One  day  he  stopped  me,  and  said:  "I  know  now  what 
your  Buckshot  Forster  died  of,"  and  then  he  went  on  without  an- 
other word. 

But  about  ten  days  after  our  first  meeting  in  the  slave  market 
he  stopped  me  again,  and  said,  quite  cheerfully :  "He  has  gone  home 
— I'm  satisfied  of  that  now." 

"Thank  God!"  I  answered  involuntarily. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  with  a  twinkle  of  the  eye,  "who  says  that  a  man 
must  hang  up  his  humanity  on  the  peg  with  his  hat  in  the  hospital 
hall  when  he  goes  to  be  a  surgeon?  If  the  poet  Keats  had  got  over 
the  first  shock  to  his  sensibilities,  he  might  have  been  the  greatest 
surgeon  of  his  day." 

"You'll  be  more  careful  in  future,"  I  said,  "not  to  cross  the 
fanaticism  of  these  fanatics?" 

He  smiled,  and  asked -if  I  knew  the  Karueein  Mosque.  I  told 
him  I  had  seen  it. 

"It  is  the  greatest  in  Morocco,"  he  said.  "The  Moors  say  the 
inner  court  stands  on  eight  hundred  pillars.  I  don't  believe  them, 
and  I  mean  to  see  for  myself." 

I  found  it  useless  to  protest,  and  he  went  his  way,  laughing  at 
my  blanched  and  bewildered  face.  "That  man,"  I  thought,  "is  fit 
to  be  the  hero  of  a  tragedy,  and  he  is  wasting  himself  on  a 
farce." 

Meanwhile,  I  had  a  shadow  over  my  own  life  which  would  not 
lift.  That  letter  which  I  had  received  from  home  at  the  moment 
of  leaving  Tangier  had  haunted  me  throughout  the  journey.  Its 
brevity,  its  insufficiency,  its  delay,  and  above  all  its  conspicuous 
omission  of  all  mention  of  our  boy  had  given  rise  to  endless  specu- 
lation. Every  dark  possibility  that  fancy  could  devise  had  risen 
before  me  by  way  of  explanation.  I  despised  myself  for  such  weak- 
ness, but  self-contempt  did  nothing  to  allay  my  vague  fears. 
The  child  was  ill;  I  knew  it;  I  felt  it;  I  could  swear  to  it  as 
certainly  as  if  my  ears  could  hear  the  labored  breathing  in  his 
throat. 

Nevertheless  I  went  on ;  so  much  did  my  philosophy  do  for  me. 
But  when  I  got  to  Fez  I  walked  straightway  to  the  English  post- 
office  to  see  if  there  was  a  letter  awaiting  me.  Of  course  there  was 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  373 

no  letter  there.  I  had  not  reflected  that  I  had  come  direct  from 
the  port  through  which  the  mails  had  to  pass,  and  that  if  the  postal 
courier  had  gone  by  me  on  the  road  I  must  have  seen  him,  which 
I  had  not. 

I  was  ashamed  before  my  own  consciousness,  but  all  the  same 
the  post-office  saw  me  every  day.  Whatever  the  direction  that  I 
took  with  my  interpreter,  it  led  toward  that  destination  in  the  end. 
And  whatever  the  subject  of  his  ceaseless  gabble — a  very  deluge 
of  words — it  was  forced  to  come  round  at  last  to  the  times  and 
seasons  of  the  mails  from  England.  These  were  bi-weekly,  with 
various  possibilities  of  casual  arrivals  besides. 

Fez  is  a  noble  city,  the  largest  and  finest  Oriental  city  I  had  yet 
seen,  fit  to  compare  in  its  own  much  different  way  of  beauty  and  of 
splendor  with  the  great  cities  of  the  West,  the  great  cities  of  the 
earth,  and  of  all  time ;  but  for  me  its  attractions  were  overshadowed 
by  the  gloom  of  my  anxiety.  The  atmosphere  of  an  older  world, 
the  spirit  of  the  East,  the  sense  of  being  transported  to  Bible  times, 
the  startling  interpretations  which  the  Biblical  stories  were  receiv- 
ing by  the  events  of  every  day — these  brought  me  no  pleasure.  As 
for  the  constant  reminders  of  the  presence  of  Islam  every  hour, 
at  every  corner,  the  perpetual  breath  of  prayer  and  praise,  which 
filled  this  land  that  was  corrupt  to  the  core,  they  gave  me  pain 
more  poignant  than  disgust.  The  call  of  the  mueddin  in  the  early 
morning  was  a  daily  agony.  I  slept  three  streets  from  the  Karueein 
minarets,  but  the  voice  seemed  to  float  into  my  room  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  coil  round  my  head  and  ring  in  my  ears.  Always  I  was 
awakened  at  the  first  sound  of  the  stentorian  "Allah-u-Kabar,"  or, 
if  I  awoke  in  the  silence  and  thought  with  a  feeling  of  relief,  "It 
is  over,  I  have  slept  through  it,"  the  howling  wail  would  suddenly 
break  in  upon  my  thanksgiving. 

There  was  just  one  fact  of  life  in  Fez  that  gave  me  a  kind  of 
melancholy  joy.  At  nearly  every  turn  of  a  street  my  ears  were 
arrested  by  the  multitudinous  cackle,  the  broken,  various-voiced 
sing-song  of  a  children's  school.  These  Moorish  schools  inter- 
ested me.  They  were  the  simplest  of  all  possible  institutes,  con- 
sisting usually  of  a  rush-covered  cellar,  two  steps  down  from  the 
street,  with  the  teacher,  the  Taleb,  often  a  half-blind  old  man, 
squatting  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  his  pupils  seated  about  him, 
and  all  reciting  together  some  passages  of  the  Koran,  the  only  text- 
book of  education.  One  such  school  was  close  under  my  bedroom 
window;  I  heard  the  drone  of  it  as  early  as  seven  o'clock  every 
morning,  and  as  often  as  I  went  abroad  I  stood  for  a  moment  and 
looked  in  at  the  open  doorway.  A  black  boy  sat  there  with  a 


374  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

basket  for  the  alms  of  passers-by.  He  was  a  bright-eyed  little  fel- 
low, six  or  seven  years  of  age,  and  he  knew  one  English  phrase 
only:  "Come  on,"  he  would  say,  and  hold  up  the  basket  and  smile. 
What  pathetic  interest  his  sunny  face  had  for  me,  how  he  would 
cheer  and  touch  me,  with  what  strange  memories  his  voice  and 
laugh  would  startle  me,  it  would  be  pitiful  to  tell. 

Bear  with  me!  I  was  far  from  my  own  darling,  I  was  in  a 
strange  land,  I  was  a  weak  man  for  all  that  I  was  thought  so  strong, 
and  my  one  besetting  infirmity — more  consuming  than  a  mother's 
love — was  preyed  upon  by  my  failing  health,  which  in  turn  was 
preying  upon  it. 

And  if  the  sights  of  the  streets  brought  me  pain,  or  pleasure 
that  was  akin  to  pain,  what  of  the  sights,  the  visions,  the  dreams 
of  my-  own  solitary  mind !  I  could  not  close  my  eyes  in  the  dark- 
ness but  I  saw  my  boy.  His  little  child-ghost  was  always  with  me. 
He  never  appeared  as  I  had  oftenest  seen  him — laughing,  romping, 
and  kicking  up  his  legs  on  the  hearth-rug.  Sometimes  he  came  as 
he  would  do  at  home  after  he  committed  some  childish  trespass  and 
I  had  whipped  him — opening  the  door  of  my  room  and  stepping  one 
pace  in,  quietly,  nervously,  half  fearfully,  to  say  good-night  and  kiss 
me  at  his  bedtime,  and  I  would  lift  my  eyes  and  see,  over  the  shade 
of  my  library  lamp,  his  little  sober  red-and- white  face  just  dried  of 
its  recent  tears.  Or,  again,  sometimes  I  myself  would  seem  in  these 
dumb  dramas  of  the  darkness  to  go  into  his  room  when  he  was 
asleep,  that  I  might  indulge  my  hungry  foolish  heart  with  looks  of 
fondness  that  the  reproving  parent  could  not  give,  and  find  him 
sleeping  with  an  open  book  in  his  hands,  which  he  had  made  be- 
lieve to  read.  And  then  for  sheer  folly  of  love  I  would  pick  up 
his  wee  knickerbockers  and  turn  out  its  load  at  either  side,  to  see 
what  a  boy's  pockets  might  be  like,  and  discover  a  curiosity  shop 
of  poor  little  treasures — a  knife  with  a  broken  blade,  a  nail,  two 
marbles,  a  bit  of  brass,  some  string,  a  screw,  a  crust  of  bread,  a 
cork,  and  a  leg  of  a  lobster. 

While  I  was  indulging  this  weakness  the  conviction  was  deep- 
ening in  my  mind  that  my  boy  was  ill.  So  strong  did  this  assur- 
ance become  at  length,  that,  though  I  was  ashamed  to  give  way 
to  it  so  far  as  to  set  my  face  toward  home,  being  yet  no  better  for 
my  holiday,  I  sat  down  at  length  to  write  a  letter  to  Wenman — I 
had  written  to  my  wife  by  every  mail — that  I  might  relieve  my 
pent-up  feelings.  I  said  nothing  to  him  of  my  misgivings,  for  I 
was  loth  to  confess  to  them,  having  no  positive  reasons  whatever, 
and  no  negative  grounds  except  the  fact  that  I  was  receiving  no 
letters.  But  I  gave  him  j.  full  history  of  my  boy's  case,  described 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  375 

each  stage  of  it  in  the  past,  foretold  its  probable  developments  in 
the  future,  indicated  with  elaborate  care  the  treatment  necessary 
at  every  point,  and  foreshadowed  the  contingencies  under  which 
it  might  in  the  end  become  malignant  and  even  deadly  unless 
stopped  by  the  operation  that  I  had  myself,  after  years  of  labor, 
found  the  art  of  making. 

I  spent  an  afternoon  in  the  writing  of  this  letter,  and  when  it 
was  done  I  felt  as  if  a  burden  that  had  been  on  my  back  for  ages 
had  suddenly  been  lifted  away.  Then  I  went  out  alone  to  post  it. 
The  time  was  close  to  evening  prayers,  and  as  I  walked  through 
the  streets  the  Talebs  and  tradesmen,  with  their  prayer-mats  under 
their  arms,  were  trooping  into  the  various  mosques.  Going  by  the 
Karueein  Mosque  I  observed  that  the  Good  Muslimeen  were  enter- 
ing it  by  hundreds.  "Some  special  celebration,"  I  thought.  My 
heart  was  light,  my  eyes  were  alert,  and  my  step  was  quick.  For 
the  first  time  since  my  coming  to  the  city,  Fez  seemed  to  me  a 
beautiful  place.  The  witchery  of  the  scenes  of  the  streets  took 
hold  of  me.  To  be  thus  transported  into  a  world  of  two  thousand 
years  ago  gave  me  the  delight  of  magic. 

When  I  reached  the  English  post-office  I  found  it  shut  up.  On 
its  shutters  behind  its  iron  grating  a  notice-board  was  hung  out, 
saying  that  the  office  was  temporarily  closed  for  the  sorting  of  an 
incoming  mail  and  the  despatch  of  an  outgoing  one.  There  was 
a  little  crowd  of  people  waiting  in  front— chiefly  Moorish  servants 
of  English  visitors — for  the  window  to  open  again,  and  near  by 
stood  the  horses  of  the  postal  couriers  pawing  the  pavement.  I 
dropped  my  letter  into  the  slit  in  the  window,  and  then  stood  aside 
to  see  if  the  mail  had  brought  anything  for  me  at  last. 

The  window  was  thrown  up,  and  two  letters  were  handed  to 
me  through  the  grating  over  the  heads  of  the  Moors,  who  were 
crushing  underneath.  I  took  them  with  a  sort  of  fear,  and 
half  wished  at  the  first  moment  that  they  might  be  from  strangers. 
They  were  from  home;  one  was  from  my  wife — I  knew  the 
envelope  before  looking  at  the  handwriting— the  other  was  from 
Wenman. 

I  read  Wenman's  letter  first.  Good  or  bad,  the  news  must  be 
broken  to  me  gently.  Hardly  had  I  torn  the  sheet  open  when  I 
saw  what  it  contained.  My  little  Noel  had  been  ill;  he  was  still 
so,  but  not  seriously,  and  I  was  not  to  be  alarmed.  The  silence 
on  their  part  which  I  had  complained  of  so  bitterly  had  merely 
been  due  to  their  fear  of  giving  me  unnecessary  anxiety.  For  his 
part  (Wenman's)  he  would  have  written  before,  relying  on  my 
manliness  and  good  sense,  but  my  wife  had  restrained  him,  saying 


376  THE  LAST   CONFESSION 

she  knew  me  better.  There  was  no  cause  for  apprehension ;  the 
boy  was  going  along  as  well  as  could  be  expected,  etc.,  etc.,  etc., 
etc.,  etc. 

Not  a  word  to  indicate  the  nature  and  degree  of  the  attack. 
Such  an  insufficient  epistle  must  have  disquieted  the  veriest  nin- 
compoop alive.  To  send  a  thing  like  that  to  me — to  me  of  all  men ! 
Was  there  ever  so  gross  a  mistake  of  judgment? 

I  knew  in  an  instant  what  the  fact  must  be — my  boy  was  down 
with  that  old  congenital  infirmity  of  the  throat.  Surely  my  wife 
had  told  me  more.  She  had.  Not  by  design,  but  unwittingly  she 
had  revealed  the  truth  to  me.  Granville  Wenman  had  written  to 
me,  she  said,  explaining  everything,  and  I  was  not  to  worry  and 
bother.  All  that  was  possible  was  being  done  for  our  darling,  anrd 
if  I  were  there  I  could  do  no  more.  The  illness  had  to  have  its 
course,  so  I  must  be  patient.  All  this  is  the  usual  jargon  of  the 
surgery — I  knew  that  Wenman  had  dictated  it — and  then  a  true 
line  or  two  worth  all  the  rest  from  my  dear  girl's  own  bleeding 
mother's  heart.  Our  poor  Noel  was  this,  and  that,  he  complained 
of  so-and-so,  and  first  began  to  look  unwell  in  such  and  such 
jways. 

It  was  clear  as  noonday.  The  attack  of  the  throat  which  I  had 
foreseen  had  come.  Five  years  I  had  looked  for  it.  Through  five 
long  years  I  had  waited  and  watched  to  check  it.  I  had  labored 
day  and  night  that  when  it  should  come  I  might  meet  it.  My  own 
health  I  had  wasted — and  for  what?  For  fame,  for  wealth,  for 
humanity,  for  science?  No,  no,  no,  but  for  the  life  of  my  boy. 
And  now  when  his  enemy  was  upon  him  at  length,  where  was  I — 
I  who  alone  in  all  this  world  of  God  could  save  him?  I  was  thir- 
teen hundred  miles  from  home. 

Oh,  the  irony  of  my  fate!  My  soul  rose  in  rebellion  against 
it.  Staggering  back  through  the  darkening  streets,  the  whole  city 
seemed  dead  and  damned. 

How  far  I  walked  in  this  state  of  oblivion  I  do  not  know,  but 
presently  out  of  the  vague  atmosphere  wherein  all  things  had  been 
effaced  I  became  conscious,  like  one  awakening  after  a  drug,  of  an 
unusual  commotion  going  on  around.  People  were  running  past 
me  and  across  me  in  the  direction  of  the  Karueein  Mosque.  From 
that  place  a  loud  tumult  was  rising  into  the  air.  The  noise  was 
increasing  with  every  moment,  and  rising  to  a  Babel  of  human 
voices. 

I  did  not  very  much  heed  the  commotion.  What  were  the 
paltry  excitements  of  life  to  me  now?  I  was  repeating  to  myself 
the  last  words  of  my  poor  wife's  letter:  "How  I  miss  you,  and 


THE  LAST  CONFESSION  377 

wish  you  were  with  me !"  "I  will  go  back,"  I  was  telling  myself, 
"I  will  go  back." 

In  the  confusion  of  my  mind  I  heard  snatches  of  words  spoken 
by  the  people  as  they  ran  by  me.  "Nazarene !"  "Christian !" 
"Cursed  Jew !"  These  were  hissed  out  at  each  other  by  the  Moors 
as  they  were  scurrying  past.  At  length  I  heard  a  Spaniard  shout 
up  to  a  fellow-countryman  who  was  on  a  house-top:  "Englishman 
caught  in  the  mosque." 

At  that  my  disordered  senses  recovered  themselves,  and  sud- 
denly I  became  aware  that  the  tumult  was  coming  in  my  direc- 
tion. The  noise  grew  deeper,  louder,  and  more  shrill  at  every 
step.  In  another  moment  it  had  burst  upon  me  in  a  whirlpool 
of  uproar. 

Round  the  corner  of  the  narrow  lane  that  led  to  the  Karueein 
Mosque  a  crowd  of  people  came  roaring  like  a  torrent.  They  were 
Moors,  Arabs,  and  Berbers,  and  they  were  shouting,  shrieking, 
yelling,  and  uttering  every  sound  that  the  human  voice  can  make. 
At  the  first  instant  I  realized  no  more  than  this,  but  at  the  next 
I  saw  that  the  people  were  hunting  a  man  as  hounds  hunt  a  wolf. 
The  man  was  flying  before  them ;  he  was  coming  toward  me :  in  the 
gathering  darkness  I  could  see  him ;  his  dress,  which  was  Moorish, 
was  torn  into  shreds  about  his  body;  his  head  was  bare;  his  chest 
was  bleeding ;  I  saw  his  face — it  was  the  face  of  the  American,  my 
companion  of  the  voyage. 

He  saw  me  too,  and  at  that  instant  he  turned  about  and 
faced  full  upon  his  pursuers.  What  happened  then  I  dare  not 
tell. 

Father,  he  was  a  brave  man,  and  he  sold  his  life  dearly.  But  he 
fell  at  last.  He  was  but  one  to  a  hundred.  The  yelping  human 
dogs  trod  him  down  like  vermin. 

I  am  a  coward.  I  fled  and  left  him.  When  I  got  back  to  my 
lodgings  I  called  for  my  guide,  for  I  was  resolved  to  leave  Fez 
without  an  hour's  delay.  The  guide  was  not  to  be  found,  and  I 
had  to  go  in  search  of  him.  When  I  lighted  on  him,  at  length,  he 
was  in  a  dingy  coffee-house,  squatting  on  the  ground  by  the  side 
of  another  Moor,  an  evil-looking  scoundrel,  who  was  reciting  some 
brave  adventure  to  a  group  of  admiring  listeners. 

I  called  my  man  out  and  told  him  of  my  purpose.  He  lifted 
his  hands  in  consternation.  "Leave  Fez  to-night?"  he  said.  "Im- 
possible, my  sultan,  impossible !  My  lord  has  not  heard  the 
order!" 

"What  order?"  I  asked.  I  was  alarmed.  Must  I  be  a  prisoner 
in  Morocco  while  my  child  lay  dying  in  England? 


378  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

"That  the  gates  be  closed  and  no  Christian  allowed  to  leave 
the  city  until  the  morning.  It  is  the  order  of  the  Kaleefa,  my 
sultan,  since  the  outrage  of  the  Christian  in  the  mosque  this 
morning." 

I  suspected  the  meaning  of  this  move  in  an  instant,  and  the 
guide's  answer  to  my  questions  ratified  my  fears.  One  man,  out 
of  madness  or  thirst  for  revenge,  had  led  the  attack  upon  the 
American,  and  a  crowd  of  fanatics  had  killed  him — giving  him  no 
chance  of  retreat  with  his  life,  either  by  circumcision  or  the  pro- 
fession of  Islam.  But  cooler  heads  had  already  found  time  to 
think  of  the  penalty  of  shedding  Christian  blood.  That  penalty  was 
twofold :  first,  the  penalty  of  disgrace  which  would  come  of  the 
idea  that  the  lives  of  Christians  were  not  safe  in  Morocco,  and 
next,  the  penalty  of  hard  dollars  to  be  paid  to  the  American  Min- 
ister at  Tangier. 

To  escape  from  the  double  danger  the  outrage  was  to  be  hushed 
up.  Circumstances  lent  themselves  to  this  artifice.  True,  that 
passage  of  the  American  across  country  had  been  known  in 
every  village  through  which  he  had  passed;  but  at  the  gates 
of  Fez  he  had  himself  cut  off  all  trace  of  his  identity.  He 
had  entered  the  city  alone,  or  in  disguise.  His  arrival  as  a 
stranger  had  not  been  notified  at  any  of  the  "clubs"  or  bazaars. 
Only  one  man  had  recognized  him:  that  man  was  Larby,  his 
guide. 

The  body  was  to  be  buried  secretly,  no  Christian  being  allowed 
to  see  it.  Then  the  report  was  to  be  given  out  that  the  dead  man 
had  been  a  Moorish  subject,  that  he  had  been  killed  in  a  blood- 
fued,  and  that  the  rumor  that  he  was  a  Christian  caught  in  the 
act  of  defying  the  mosque  was  an  error,  without  the  shadow  of 
truth  in  it.  But  until  all  this  had  been  done  no  Christian  should 
be  allowed  to  pass  through  the  gates.  As  things  stood  at  present 
the  first  impulse  of  a  European  would  be  to  fly  to  the  Consul  with 
the  dangerous  news. 

I  knew  something  of  the  Moors  and  their  country  by  this  time, 
and  I  left  Fez  that  night,  but  it  cost  me  fifty  pounds  to  get  out  of 
it.  There  was  a  bribe  for  the  kaid,  a  bribe  for  the  Kaleefa,  and 
bribes  for  every  ragged  Jack  of  the  underlings  down  to  the  porter 
at  the  gate. 

With  all  my  horror  and  the  fever  of  my  anxiety,  I  could  have 
laughed  in  the  face  of  the  first  of  these  functionaries.  Between 
his  greedy  desire  of  the  present  I  was  offering  him,  his  suspicion 
that  I  knew  something  of  the  identity  of  the  Christian  who  had 
been  killed,  his  misgivings  as  to  the  reasons  of  my  sudden  flight, 


THE  LAST   CONFESSION  379 

and  his  dread  that  I  would  discover  the  circumstances  of  the 
American's  death,  the  figure  he  cut  was  a  foolish  one.  But  why 
should  I  reproach  the  man's  duplicity?  I  was  practising  the  like 
of  it  myself.  Too  well  I  knew  that  if  I  betrayed  any  knowledge 
of  what  had  happened  it  would  be  impossible  that  I  should  be  al- 
lowed to  leave  Fez. 

So  I  pretended  to  know  nothing.  It  was  a  ridiculous  inter- 
view. 

On  my  way  back  from  it  I  crossed  a  little  company  of  Moors, 
leading,  surrounding,  and  following  a  donkey.  The  donkey  was 
heavily  laden  with  what  appeared  to  be  two  great  panniers  of 
rubbish.  It  was  dusk,  but  my  sight  has  always  been  keen,  and  I 
could  not  help  seeing  that  hidden  tinder  the  rubbish  there  was  an- 
other burden  on  the  donkey's  back.  It  was  the  body  of  a  dead 
man.  I  had  little  doubt  of  who  the  dead  man  must  be;  but  I 
hastened  on  and  did  not  look  again.  The  Moors  turned  into  a 
garden  as  I  passed  them.  I  guessed  what  they  were  about  to  do 
there,  but  my  own  danger  threatened  me,  and  I  wished  to  see  and 
know  no  more. 

As  I  was  passing  out  of  the  town  in  the  moonlight  an  hour 
before  midnight,  with  my  grumbling  tentmen  and  muleteers  at  my 
heels,  a  man  stepped  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  gateway  arch  and 
leered  in  my  face,  and  said  in  broken  English,  "So  your  Chris- 
tian friend  is  corrected  by  Allah !" 

Moorish  English,  my  son,  or  Spanish? 

Spanish. 

It  was  the  scoundrel  whom  I  had  seen  in  the  coffee-house.  I 
knew  he  must  be  Larby,  and  that  he  had  betrayed  his  master  at 
last.  Also,  I  knew  that  he  was  aware  that  I  had  seen  all.  At  that 
moment,  looking  down  from  my  horse's  back  into  the  man's  evil 
face  my  whole  nature  changed.  I  remembered  the  one  opportu- 
nity which  the  American  had  lost  out  of  a  wandering  impulse  of 
human  tenderness — of  saving  his  own  life  by  taking  the  life  of  him 
that  threatened  it,  and  I  said  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  "Now  God  in 
heaven  keep  me  from  the  like  temptation." 

Ah !  father,  do  not  shrink  from  me ;  think  of  it,  only  think  of 
it !  I  was  fifteen  hundred  miles  from  home,  and  I  was  going  back 
to  my  dying  boy. 

God  keep  you,  indeed,  my  son.  Your  feet  were  set  in  a  slippery 
place.  El  Arby,  you  say?  A  man  of  your  ozvn  age?  Dark? 
Sallow?  It  must  be  the  same.  Long  ago  I  knew  the  man  you 
•fpeak  of.  It  was  under  another  name,  and  in  another  country. 


380  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

Yes,  lie  was  all  you  say.  God  forgive  him,  God  forgive  him !  Poor 
wrecked  and  bankrupt  soul.  His  evil  angel  was  alzvays  at  his 
hand,  and  his  good  one  far  away.  He  brought  his  father  to  shame, 
and  his  mother  to  the  grave.  There  was  a  crime  and  conviction, 
then  banishment,  and  after  that  his  father  fled  from  the  world. 
But  the  Church  is  peace;  he  took  refuge  with  her,  and  all  is  well. 
Go  on  now. 


THE  LAST   CONFESSION  381 


III 

FATHER,  I  counted  it  up.  Every  mile  of  the  distance  I  counted 
it.  And  I  reckoned  every  hour  since  my  wife's  letter  had  been  writ- 
ten against  the  progress  and  period  of  my  boy's  disease.  So  many 
days  since  the  date  of  the  letter,  and  Noel  had  been  ailing  and  ill 
so  many  days  before  that.  The  gross  sum  of  those  days  was 
so  much,  and  in  that  time  the  affection,  if  it  ran  the  course  I  looked 
for,  must  have  reached  such  and  such  a  stage.  While  I  toiled  along 
over  the  broad  wastes  of  that  desolate  land,  I  seemed  to  know  at 
any  moment  what  the  condition  must  be  at  the  utmost  and  best  of 
my  boy  in  his  bed  at  home. 

Then  I  reckoned  the  future  as  well  as  the  past.  So  many  days 
it  would  take  me  to  ride  to  Tangier,  so  many  hours  to  cross  from 
Tangier  to  Cadiz,  so  many  days  and  nights  by  rail  from  Cadiz  to 
London.  The  grand  total  of  time  past  since  my  poor  Noel  first 
became  unwell,  and  of  time  to  come  before  I  could  reach  his  side, 
would  be  so  much.  What  would  his  condition  be  then  ?  I  knew 
that  also.  It  would  be  so  and  so. 

Thus,  step  by  step  I  counted  it  all  up.  The  interval  would  be 
long,  very  long,  between  the  beginning  of  the  attack  and  my  get- 
ting home,  but  not  too  long  for  my  hopes.  All  going  well  with  me, 
I  should  still  arrive  in  time.  If  the  disease  had  taken  an  evil  turn, 
my  boy  might  perhaps  be  in  its  last  stages.  But  then  7  would  be 
there,  and  I  could  save  him.  The  operation  which  I  had  spent 
five  years  of  my  life  to  master  would  bring  him  back  from  the 
gates  of  death  itself. 

Father,  I  had  no  doubt  of  that,  and  I  had  no  doubt  of  my 
calculations.  Lying  here  now  it  seems  as  if  the  fiends  themselves 
must  have  shrieked  to  see  me  in  that  far-off  land  gambling  like  a 
fool  in  the  certainty  of  the  life  I  loved,  and  reckoning  nothing 
of  the  hundred  poor  chances  that  might  snuff  it  out  like  a  candle. 
Call  it  frenzy,  call  it  madness,  nevertheless  it  kept  my  heart  alive, 
and  saved  me  from  despair. 

But,  oh !  the  agony  of  my  impatience !  If  anything  should  stop 
me  now !  Let  me  be  one  day  later — only  one — and  what  might  not 
occur !  Then,  how  many  were  the  dangers  of  delay !  First,  there 


382  THE   LAST    CONFESSION 

was  the  possibility  of  illness  overtaking  me.  My  health  was  not 
better,  but  worse,  than  when  I  left  home.  I  was  riding  from  sun- 
rise to  sunset,  and  not  sleeping  at  nights.  No  matter !  I  put  all 
fear  from  that  cause  away  from  me.  Though  my  limbs  refused  to 
bear  me  up,  and  under  the  affliction  of  my  nerves  my  muscles  lost 
the  power  to  hold  the  reins,  yet  if  I  could  be  slung  on  to  the  back 
of  my  horse  I  should  still  go  on. 

But  then  there  was  the  worse  danger  of  coming  into  collision 
with  the  fanaticism  of  the  people  through  whose  country  I  had 
to  pass.  I  did  not  fear  the  fate  of  the  American,  for  I  could  not 
be  guilty  of  his  folly.  But  I  remembered  the  admission  of  the 
English  Consul  at  Tangier  that  a  stranger  might  offend  the  super- 
stitions of  the  Moslems  unwittingly ;  I  recalled  his  parting  words  of 
counsel,  spoken  half  in  jest,  "Keep  out  of  a  Moorish  prison";  and 
the  noisome  dungeon  into  which  the  young  Berber  had  been  cast 
arose  before  my  mind  in  visions  of  horror. 

What  precautions  I  took  to  avoid  these  dangers  of  delay  would 
be  a  long  and  foolish  story.  Also,  it  would  be  a  mean  and  abject 
one,  and  I  should  be  ashamed  to  tell  it.  How  I  saluted  every  scurvy 
beggar  on  the  way  with  the  salutation  of  his  faith  and  country; 
how  I  dismounted  as  I  approached  a  town  or  a  village,  and  only  re- 
turned to  the  saddle  when  I  had  gone  through  it :  how  I  uncovered 
my  head — in  ignorance  of  Eastern  custom — as  I  went  by  a  saint's 
house,  and  how  at  length  (remembering  the  Jewish  banker  who 
was  beaten)  I  took  off  my  shoes  and  walked  barefoot  as  I  passed 
in  front  of  a  mosque. 

Yes,  it  was  I  who  paid  all  this  needless  homage ;  I  whose  pride 
has  always  been  my  bane ;  I  who  could  not  bend  the  knee  to  be 
made  a  knight ;  I  who  had  felt  humility  before  no  man.  Even  so  it 
was.  In  my  eagerness,  my  impatience,  my  dread  of  impediment 
on  my  journey  home  to  my  darling  who  waited  for  me  there,  I  was 
studying  the  faces  and  groveling  at  the  feet  of  that  race  of  ignorant 
fanatics. 

But  the  worst  of  my  impediments  were  within  my  own  camp. 
The  American  was  right.  The  Moor  can  not  comprehend  a  disin- 
terested action.  My  foolish  homage  to  their  faith  awakened  the 
suspicions  of  my  men.  When  they  had  tried  in  vain  to  fathom  the 
meaning  of  it,  they  agreed  to  despise  me.  I  did  not  heed  their 
contempt,  but  I  was  compelled  to  take  note  of  its  consequences. 
From  being  my  servants,  they  became  my  masters.  When  it 
pleased  them  to  encamp  I  had  to  rest,  though  my  inclination  was 
to  go  on,  and  only  when  it  suited  them  to  set  out  again  could  I 
resume  my  journey.  In  vain  did  I  protest,  and  plead,  and  threaten. 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  383 

The  Moor  is  often  a  brave  man,  but  these  men  were  a  gang  of 
white-livered  poltroons,  and  a  blow  would  have  served  to  subdue 
them.  With  visions  of  a  Moorish  prison  before  my  eyes  I  dared 
not  raise  my  hand.  One  weapon  alone  could  I,  in  my  own  cow- 
ardice, employ  against  them — bribes,  bribes,  bribes.  Such  was  the 
sole  instrument  with  which  I  combated  their  laziness,  their  duplic- 
ity, and  their  deceit. 

Father,  I  was  a  pitiful  sight  in  my  weakness  and  my  impatience. 
We  had  not  gone  far  out  of  Fez  when  I  observed  that  the  man 
Larby  was  at  the  heels  of  our  company.  This  alarmed  me,  and  I 
called  to  my  guide. 

"Alee,"  I  said,   "who  is  that  evil-looking  fellow?" 

Alee  threw  up  both  hands  in  amazement.  "Evil-looking  fel- 
low !"  he  cried.  "God  be  gracious  to  my  father !  Who  does  my 
lord  mean  ?  Not  Larby ;  no,  not  Larby.  Larby  is  a  good  man.  He 
lives  in  one  of  the  mosque  houses  at  Tangier.  The  Nadir  leased 
it  to  him,  and  he  keeps  his  shop  on  the  Sok  de  Barra.  Allah  bless 
Larby.  Should  you  want  musk,  should  you  want  cinnamon,  Larby 
is  the  man  to  sell  to  you.  But  sometimes  he  guides  Christians  to 
(Fez,  and  then  his  brother  keeps  his  shop  for  him." 

"But  why  is  the  man  following  us?"  I  asked. 

"My  sultan,"  said  Alee,  "am  I  not  telling  you?  Larby  is  re- 
turning home.  The  Christian  he  took  to  Fez,  where  is  he  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "where  is  he?" 

Alee  grinned,  and  answered:  "He  is  gone — southward,  my 
lord." 

"Why  should  you  lie  to  me  like  that  ?"  I  said.  "You  know  the 
Christian  is  dead,  and  that  this  Larby  was  the  means  of  killing 
him !" 

"Shoo!  What  is  my  lord  saying?"  cried  Alee,  lifting  his  fat 
hands  with  a  warning  gesture.  "What  did  my  lord  tell  the 
Basha?  My  lord  must  know  nothing — nothing.  It  would  not 
be  safe." 

Then  with  glances  of  fear  toward  Larby,  and  dropping  his  voice 
to  a  whisper,  Alee  added,  "It  is  true  the  Christian  is  dead;  he  died 
last  sunset.  Allah  corrected  him.  So  Larby  is  going  back  alone, 
going  back  to  his  shop,  to  his  house,  to  his  wives,  to  his  little 
daughter  Hoolia.  Allah  send  Larby  a  safe  return.  Not  following 
us,  Sidi.  No,  no;  Larby  is  going  back  the  same  way — that  is 
all." 

The  answer  did  not  content  me,  but  I  could  say  no  more. 
Nevertheless,  my  uneasiness  at  the  man's  presence  increased  hour 
by  hour.  I  could  not  think  of  him  without  thinking  also  of  the 


384  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

American  and  of  the  scene  of  horror  near  to  the  Karueein  Mosque. 
I  could  not  look  at  him  but  the  blood  down  my  back  ran  cold.  So 
I  called  my  guide  again,  and  said,  "Send  that  man  away;  I  will 
not  have  him  in  our  company." 

Alee  pretended  to  be  deeply  wounded.  "Sidi,"  he  said,  "ask 
anything  else  of  me.  What  will  you  ask?  Will  you  ask  me  to 
die  for  you?  I  am  ready,  I  am  willing,  I  am  satisfied.  But 
Larby  is  my  friend.  Larby  is  my  brother,  and  this  thing  you 
ask  of  me  I  can  not  do.  Allah  has  not  written  it  Sidi,  it 
can  not  be." 

With  such  protestations — the  common  cant  of  the  country — 
I  had  need  to  be  content.  But  now  the  impression  fixed  itself  upon 
my  mind  that  the  evil-faced  scoundrel  who  had  betrayed  the  Amer- 
ican to  his  death  was  not  only  following  us  but  me.  Oh!  the 
torment  of  that  idea  in  the  impatience  of  my  spirit  and  the  rack- 
ing fever  of  my  nerves !  To  be  dogged  day  and  night  as  by  a 
bloodhound,  never  to  raise  my  eyes  without  the  dread  of  encounter- 
ing the  man's  watchful  eye — the  agony  of  the  incubus  was  un- 
bearable ! 

My  first  thought  was  merely  that  the  rascal  meant  robbery. 
However  far  I  might  ride  ahead  of  my  own  people  in  the  daytime 
he  was  always  close  behind  me,  and  as  surely  as  I  wandered  away 
from  the  camp  at  nightfall  I  was  overtaken  by  him  or  else  I  met 
him  face  to  face. 

"Alee,"  I  said  at  last,  "that  man  is  a  thief." 
Of  course  Alee  was  horrified.  "Ya  Allah !"  he  cried.  "What  is 
my  lord  saying?  The  Moor  is  no  thief.  The  Moor  is  true,  the 
Moor  is  honest.  None  so  true  and  honest  as  the  Moor.  Where- 
fore should  the  Moor  be  a  thief?  To  be  a  thief  in  Barbary  is  to 
be  a  fool.  Say  I  rob  a  Christian.  Good.  I  kill  him  and  take  all 
he  has  and  bury  him  in  a  lonely  place.  All  right.  What  happens  ? 
Behold,  Sidi,  this  is  what  happens.  Your  Christian  Consul  says, 
'Where  is  the  Christian  you  took  to  Fez  ?'  I  can  not  tell.  I  lie, 
I  deceive,  I  make  excuses.  No  use.  Your  Christian  Consul  goes 
to  the  Kasbah,  and  says  to  the  Basha :  'Cast  that  Moor  into  prison, 
he  is  a  robber  and  a  murderer!'  Then  he  goes  to  the  Sultan  at 
Marrakesh,  in  the  name  of  your  Queen,  who  lives  in  the  country 
of  the  Nazarenes.  over  the  sea.  'Pay  me  twenty  thousand  dollars,' 
he  says,  'for  the  life  of  my  Christian  who  is  robbed  and  murdered.' 
Just  so.  The  Sultan — Allah  preserve  our  Mulai  Hassan ! — he 
pays  the  dollars.  Good,  all  right,  just  so.  But  is  that  all,  Sidi? 
No,  Sidi,  that  is  not  all.  The  Sultan — God  prolong  the  life  of 
our  merciful  lord — he  then  comes  to  my  people,  to  my  Basha,  to 


THE  LAST   CONFESSION  385 

my  bashalic,  and  he  says,  'Pay  me  back  my  forty  thousand  dollars'— 
do  you  hear  me,  Sidi,  forty  thousand ! — 'for  the  Nazarene  who  is 
dead.'  All  right.  But  we  can  not  pay.  Good.  The  Sultan— Allah 
save  him ! — he  comes,  he  takes  all  we  have,  he  puts  every  man  of 
my  people  to  the  sword.  We  are  gone,  we  are  wiped  out.  Did  I 
not  say,  Sidi,  to  be  a  thief  in  Barbary  is  to  be  a  fool?" 

It  was  cold  comfort.  That  the  man  Larby  was  following  me  I 
was  confident,  and  that  he  meant  to  rob  me  I  was  at  first  convinced. 
Small  solace,  therefore,  in  the  thought  that  if  the  worst  befell  me, 
and  my  boy  at  home  died  for  want  of  his  father,  who  lay  robbed 
and  murdered  in  those  desolate  wastes,  my  Government  would 
exact  a  claim  in  paltry  dollars. 

My  next  thought  was  that  the  man  was  merely  watching  me  out 
of  the  country.  That  he  was  aware  that  I  knew  his  secret  was  only 
too  certain;  that  he  had  betrayed  my  knowledge  to  the  authorities 
at  the  capital  after  I  had  parted  from  them  was  more  than  probable, 
and  it  was  not  impossible  that  the  very  men  who  had  taken  bribes 
of  me  had  in  their  turn  bribed  him  that  he  might  follow  me  and  see 
that  I  did  not  inform  the  Ministers  and  Consuls  of  foreign  countries 
of  the  murder  of  the  American  in  the  streets  of  Fez. 

That  theory  partly  reconciled  me  to  the  man's  presence:  Let 
him  watch.  His  constant  company  was  in  its  tormenting  way  my 
best  security.  I  should  go  to  no  Minister,  and  no  Consul  should 
see  me.  I  had  too  much  reason  to  think  of  my  own  living  affairs 
to  busy  myself  with  those  of  the  dead  American. 

But  such  poor  unction  as  this  reflection  brought  me  was  dissi- 
pated by  a  second  thought.  What  security  for  the  man  himself, 
or  for  the  authorities  who  might  have  bribed  him — or  perhaps 
menaced  him— to  watch  me  would  lie  in  the  fact  that  I  had  passed 
out  of  the  country  without  revealing  the  facts  of  the  crime  which 
I  had  witnessed?  Safely  back  in  England,  I  might  tell  all  with 
safety.  Once  let  me  leave  Morocco  with  their  secret  in  my  breast, 
and  both  the  penalties  these  people  dreaded  might  be  upon  them. 
Merely  to  watch  me  was  wasted  labor.  They  meant  to  do  more, 
or  they  would  have  done  nothing. 

Thinking  so,  another  idea  took  possession  of  me  with  a  shock 
of  terror— the  man  was  following  me  to  kill  me  as  the  sole  Chris- 
tian witness  of  the  crime  that  had  been  committed.  By  the  light 
of  that  theory  everything  became  plain.  When  I  visited  the 
Kasbah  nothing  was  known  of  my  acquaintance  with  the  murdered 
man.  My  bribes  were  taken,  and  I  was  allowed  to  leave  Fez  m 
spite  of  public  orders.  But  then  came  Larby  with  alarming  mtelli 
gence.  I  had  been  a  friend  of  the  American,  and  had  been  seen 


g86  THE  LAST   CONFESSION 

to  speak  with  him  in  the  public  streets.  Perhaps  Larby  himself  had 
seen  me,  or  perhaps  my  own  guide,  Alee,  had  betrayed  me  to  his 
friend  and  "brother."  At  that  the  Kaid  or  his  Kaleefa  had  raised 
their  eyebrows  and  sworn  at  each  other  for  simpletons  and  fools. 
To  think  that  the  very  man  who  had  intended  to  betray  them  had 
come  with  an  innocent  face  and  a  tale  of  a  sick  child  in  England ! 
To  think  that  they  had  suffered  him  to  slip  through  their  fingers 
and  leave  them  some  paltry  bribes  of  fifty  pounds!  Fifty  pounds 
taken  by  stealth  against  twenty  thousand  dollars  to  be  plumped 
down  after  the  Christian  had  told  his  story !  These  Nazarenes  were 
so  subtle,  and  the  sons  of  Ishmael  were  so  simple.  But  diamond 
cut  diamond.  Everything  was  not  lost.  One  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  miles  this  Christian  had  still  to  travel  before  he  could  sail 
from  Barbary,  and  not  another  Christian  could  he  encounter  on 
that  journey.  Then  up,  Larby,  and  after  him !  God  make  your 
way  easy!  Remember,  Larby,  remember,  good  fellow,  it  is  not 
only  the  pockets  of  the  people  of  Fez  that  are  in  danger  if  that 
Christian  should  escape.  Let  him  leave  the  Gharb  alive,  and  your 
own  neck  is  in  peril.  You  were  the  spy,  you  were  the  informer, 
you  were  the  hotheaded  madman  who  led  the  attack  that  ended  in 
the  spilling  of  Christian  blood.  If  the  Sultan  should  have  to  pay 
twenty  thousand  dollars  to  the  Minister  for  America  at  Tangier  for 
the  life  of  this  dead  dog  whom  we  have  grubbed  into  the  earth  in  a 
garden,  if  the  Basha  of  Fez  should  have  to  pay  forty  thousand 
dollars  to  the  Sultan,  if  the  people  should  have  to  pay  eighty  thou- 
sand dollars  to  the  Basha,  then  you,  Larby,  you  in  your  turn  will 
have  to  pay  with  your  life  to  the  people.  It  is  your  life  against  the 
life  of  the  Christian.  So  follow  him,  watch  him,  silence  him,  he 
knows  your  secret — away! 

Such  was  my  notion  of  what  happened  at  the  Kasbah  of  Fez 
after  I  had  passed  the  gates  of  the  city.  It  was  a  wild  vision,  but 
to  my  distempered  imagination  it  seemed  to  be  a  plausible  theory. 
And  now  Larby,  the  spy  upon  the  American,  Larby,  my  assassin- 
elect,  Larby,  who  to  save  his  own  life  must  take  mine,  Larby  was 
with  me,  was  beside  me,  was  behind  me  constantly ! 

God  help  you,  my  son,  God  help  you!  Larby!  O  Larby!  Again, 
again  ! 

What  was  I  to  do?  Open  my  heart  to  Larby;  to  tell  him  it  was 
a  blunder ;  that  I  meant  no  man  mischief ;  that  I  was  merely  hasten- 
ing back  to  my  sick  boy,  who  was  dying  for  want  of  me?  That 
was  impossible;  Larby  would  laugh  in  my  face,  and  still  follow 
me.  Bribe  him?  That  was  useless;  Larby  would  take  my  money 
and  make  the  surer  of  his  victim.  It  was  a  difficult  problem;  but 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  387 

at  length  I  hit  on  a  solution.  Father,  you  will  pity  me  for  a  fool 
when  you  hear  it.  I  would  bargain  with  Larby  as  Faust  bargained 
with  the  devil.  He  should  give  me  two  weeks  of  life,  and  come 
with  me  to  England.  I  should  do  my  work  here,  and  Larby  should 
never  leave  my  side.  My  boy's  life  should  be  saved  by  that  opera- 
tion, which  I  alone  knew  how  to  perform.  After  that  Larby  and 
I  should  square  accounts  together.  He  should  have  all  the  money 
I  had  in  the  world,  and  the  passport  of  my  name  and  influence  for 
his  return  to  his  own  country.  I  should  write  a  confession  of 
suicide,  and  then — and  then — only  then — at  home — here  in  my 
own  room — Larby  should  kill  me  in  order  to  satisfy  himself 
that  his  own  secret  and  the  secret  of  his  people  must  be  safe 
forever. 

It  was  a  mad  dream,  but  what  dream  of  dear  life  is  not  mad  that 
comes  to  the  man  whom  death  dogs  like  a  bloodhound?  And  mad 
as  it  was  I  tried  to  make  it  come  true.  The  man  was  constantly 
near  me,  and  on  the  third  morning  of  our  journey  I  drew  upi 
sharply,  and  said: 

"Larby !" 

"Sidi,"  he  answered. 

"Would  you  not  like  to  go  on  with  me  to  England?" 

He  looked  aj  me  with  his  glittering  eyes,  and  I  gave  an  invol- 
untary shiver.  I  had  awakened  the  man's  suspicions  in  an  instant. 
He  thought  I  meant  to  entrap  him.  But  he  only  smiled  know- 
ingly, shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  answered  civilly:  "I  have  my 
shop  in  the  Sok  de  Barra,  Sidi.  And  then  there  are  my  wives 
and  my  sons  and  my  little  Hoolia— God  be  praised  for  all  his 
blessings." 

"Hoolia?"  I  asked. 

"My  little  daughter,  Sidi." 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"Six,  Sidi,  only  six,  but  as  fair  as  an  angel." 

"I  dare  say  she  misses  you  when  you  are  away,  Larby,"  I  said. 

"You  have  truth,  Sidi.  She  sits  in  the  Sok  by  the  tents  of  the 
brassworkers  and  plaits  rushes  all  the  day  long,  and  looks  over  to 
where  the  camels  come  by  the  saints'  houses  on  the  hill,  and  waits 
and  watches." 

"Larby,"  I  said,  "I,  too,  have  a  child  at  home  who  is  waiting 
and  watching.  A  boy,  my  little  Noel,  six  years  of  age,  just  as  old 
as  your  own  little  Hoolia.  And  so  bright,  so  winsome.  But  he  is 
ill,  he  is  dying,  and  he  is  all  the  world  to  me.  Larby,  I  am  a 
surgeon,  I  am  a  doctor,  if  I  could  but  reach  England — " 

It  was  worse  than  useless.    I  stopped,  for  I  could  go  no  farther. 


388  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

The  cold  glitter  of  the  man's  eyes  passed  over  me  like  frost  over 
flame,  and  I  knew  his  thought  as  well  as  if  he  had  spoken  it.  "I 
have  heard  that  story  before,"  he  was  telling  himself,  "I  have 
heard  it  at  the  Kasbah,  and  it  is  a  lie  and  a  trick." 

My  plan  was  folly,  and  I  abandoned  it;  but  I  was  more  than 
ever  convinced  of  my  theory.  This  man  was  following  me  to  kill 
me.  He  was  waiting  an  opportunity  to  do  his  work  safely,  secretly, 
and  effectually.  His  rulers  would  shield  him  in  his  crime,  for  by 
that  crime  they  would  themselves  be  shielded. 

Father,  my  theory,  like  my  plan,  was  foolishness.  Only  a 
madman  would  have  dreamt  of  concealing  a  crime  whereof  there 
was  but  one  witness,  by  a  second  crime,  whereof  the  witnesses  must 
have  been  five  hundred.  The  American  had  traveled  in  disguise 
and  cut  off  the  trace  of  his  identity  to  all  men  save  myself.  When 
he  died  at  the  hands  of  the  fanatics  whose  faith  he  had  outraged,  I 
alone  of  all  Christians  knew  that  it  was  Christian  blood  that  had 
stained  the  streets  of  Fez.  But  how  different  my  own  death  must 
have  been.  I  had  traveled  openly  as  a  Christian  and  an  English- 
man. At  the  consulate  of  Tangier  I  was  known  by  name  and  re- 
pute, and  at  that  of  Fez  I  had  registered  myself.  My  presence  had 
been  notified  at  every  town  I  had  passed  through,  and  the  men  of 
my  caravan  would  not  have  dared  to  return  to  their  homes  without 
me.  In  the  case  of  the  murder  of  the  American  the  chances  to 
the  Moorish  authorities  of  claim  for  indemnity  were  as  one  to  five 
hundred.  In  the  case  of  the  like  catastrophe  to  myself  they  must 
have  been  as  five  hundred  to  one.  Thus,  in  spite  of  fanaticism 
and  the  ineradicable  hatred  of  the  Moslem  for  the  Nazarene, 
Morocco  to  me,  as  to  all  Christian  travelers,  traveling  openly  and 
behaving  themselves  properly,  was  as  safe  a  place  as  England 
itself. 

But  how  can  a  man.  be  hot  and  cold  and  wise  and  foolish  in  a 
moment?  I  was  in  no  humor  to  put  the  matter  to  myself  tem- 
perately, and,  though  I  had  been  so  cool  as  to  persuade  myself 
that  the  authorities  whom  I  had  bribed  could  not  have  been  mad- 
men enough  to  think  that  they  could  conceal  the  murder  of  the 
American  by  murdering  me,  yet  I  must  have  remained  convinced 
that  Larby  himself  was  such  a  madman. 

As  a  surgeon,  I  had  some  knowledge  of  madness,  and  the  cold, 
clear,  steely  glitter  of  the  man's  eyes  when  he  looked  at  me  was 
a  thing  that  I  could  not  mistake.  I  had  seen  it  before  in  religious 
monomaniacs.  It  was  an  infallible  and  fatal  sign.  With  that  light 
in  the  eyes,  like  the  glance  of  a  dagger,  men  will  kill  the  wives  they 
love,  and  women  will  slaughter  the  children  of  their  bosom.  When 


THE  LAST   CONFESSION  389 

I  saw  it  in  Larby  I  shivered  with  a  chilly  presentiment.  It  seemed 
to  say  that  I  should  see  my  home  no  more.  I  have  seen  my  home 
once  more;  I  am  back  in  England,  I  am  here,  but — 

No,  no,  not  THAT!    Larby!    Don't  tell  ME  you  did  THAT. 

Father,  is  my  crime  so  dark  ?  That  hour  comes  back  and  back. 
How  long  will  it  haunt  me?  How  long?  For  ever  and  ever. 
When  time  for  me  is  swallowed  up  in  eternity,  eternity  will  be 
swallowed  up  in  the  memory  of  that  hour.  Peace!  Do  you  say 
peace?  Ah!  yes,  yes;  God  is  merciful! 

Before  I  had  spoken  to  Larby  his  presence  in  our  company  had 
been  only  as  a  dark  and  fateful  shadow.  Now  it  was  a  foul  and 
hateful  incubus.  Never  in  all  my  life  until  then  had  I  felt  hatred 
for  any  human  creature.  But  I  hated  that  man  with  all  the  sinews 
of  my  soul.  What  was  it  to  me  that  he  was  a  madman?  He  in- 
tended to  keep  me  from  my  dying  boy.  Why  should  I  feel  tender- 
ness toward  him  because  he  was  the  father  of  his  little  Hoolia? 
By  killing  me  he  would  kill  my  little  Noel. 

I  began  to  recall  the  doctrines  of  the  American  as  he  pro- 
pounded them  on  the  ship.  It  was  the  life  of  an  honest  man  against 
the  life  of  a  scoundrel.  These  things  should  be  rated  ad  valorem. 
If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  why  should  I  have  more  respect 
for  this  madman's  life  than  for  my  own? 

I  looked  at  the  man  and  measured  his  strength  against  mine. 
He  was  a  brawny  fellow  with  broad  shoulders,  and  I  was  no  bet- 
ter than  a  weakling.  I  was  afraid  of  him,  but  I  was  yet  more 
afraid  of  myself.  Sometimes  I  surprised  my  half-conscious  mind 
in  the  act  of  taking  out  of  its  silver-mounted  sheath  the  large 
curved  knife  which  I  had  bought  of  the  hawker  at  Tangier,  and 
now  wore  in  the  belt  of  my  Norfolk  jacket.  In  my  cowardice  and 
my  weakness  this  terrified  me.  Not  all  my  borrowed  philosophy 
served  to  support  me  against  the  fear  of  my  own  impulses.  Mean- 
time, I  was  in  tn  agony  of  suspense  and  dread.  The  nights  brought 
me  no  rest  and  the  mornings  no  freshness. 

On  the  fourth  day  out  of  Fez  we  arrived  at  Wazzan,  and  there, 
though  the  hour  was  still  early,  my  men  decided  to  encamp  for  the 
night.  I  protested,  and  they  retorted;  I  threatened,  and  they  ex- 
cused themselves.  The  mules  wanted  shoeing.  I  offered  to  pay 
double  that  they  might  be  shod  immediately.  The  tents  were  torn 
by  a  heavy  wind  the  previous  night.  I  offered  to  buy  new  ones. 
When  their  trumpery  excuses  failed  them,  the  men  rebelled  openly, 
and  declared  their  determination  not  to  stir  out  of  Wazzan  that 
night. 

But  they  had  reckoned  without  their  host  this  time.    I  found 


390  THE  LAST   CONFESSION 

that  there  was  an  English  Consul  at  Wazzan,  and  I  went  in  search 
of  him.  His  name  was  Smith,  and  he  was  a  typical  Englishman — 
ample,  expansive,  firm,  resolute,  domineering,  and  not  troubled 
with  too  much  sentiment.  I  told  him  of  the  revolt  of  my  people  and 
of  the  tyranny  of  the  subterfuges  whereby  they  had  repeatedly  ex- 
torted bribes.  The  good  fellow  came  to  my  relief.  He  was  a  man 
of  purpose,  and  he  had  no  dying  child  twelve  hundred  miles  away 
to  make  him  a  fool  and  a  coward. 

"Men,"  he  said,  "you've  got  to  start  away  with  this  gentleman 
at  sundown,  and  ride  night  and  day — do  yow  hear  me,  night  and 
day — until  you  come  to  Tangier.  A  servant  of  my  own  shall  go 
with  you,  and  if  you  stop  or  delay  or  halt  or  go  slowly  he  shall  see 
that  every  man  of  you  is  clapped  into  the  Kasbah  as  a  blackmailer 
and  a  thief." 

There  was  no  more  talk  of  rebellion.  The  men  protested  that 
they  had  always  been  willing  to  travel.  Sidi  had  been  good  to 
them,  and  they  would  be  good  to  Sidi.  At  sundown  they  would 
be  ready. 

"You  will  have  no  more  trouble,  sir,"  said  the  Consul;  "but  I 
will  come  back  to  see  you  start." 

I  thanked  him  and  we  parted.  It  was  still  an  hour  before  sun- 
set, and  I  turned  aside  to  look  at  the  town.  I  had  barely  walked  a 
dozen  paces  when  I  came  face  to  face  with  Larby.  In  the  turmoil 
of  my  conflict  with  the  men  I  had  actually  forgotten  him  for  one 
long  hour.  He  looked  at  me  with  his  glittering  eyes,  and  then  his 
cold,  clear  gaze  followed  the  Consul  as  he  passed  down  the  street. 
That  double  glance  was  like  a  shadowy  warning.  It  gave  me  a 
shock  of  terror. 

How  had  I  forgotten  my  resolve  to  baffle  suspicion  by  ex- 
changing no  word  or  look  with  any  European  Minister  or  Consul 
as  long  as  I  remained  in  Morocco?  The  expression  in  the  man's 
face  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  It  seemed  to  say,  "So  you  have  told 
all;  very  well,  Sidi,  we  shall  see." 

With  a  sense  as  of  creeping  and  cringing  I  passed  on.  The 
shadow  of  death  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  me  at  last.  I  felt 
myself  to  be  a  doomed  man.  That  madman  would  surely  kill  me. 
He  would  watch  his  chance ;  I  should  never  escape  him ;  my  home 
would  see  me  no  more ;  my  boy  would  die  for  want  of  me. 

A  tingling  noise,  as  of  the  jangling  of  bells,  was  in  my  ears. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  tinkling  of  the  bells  of  the  water-carriers,  pro- 
longed and  unbroken.  A  gauzy  mist  danced  before  my  eyes.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  palpitating  haze  which  the  sun  cast  back  from  the 
gilded  domes  and  minarets. 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  391 

Domes  and  minarets  were  everywhere  in  this  town  of  Wazzan. 
It  seemed  to  be  a  place  of  mosques  and  saints'  houses.  Where  the 
wide  arch  and  the  trough  of  the  mosque  were  not,  there  was  the 
open  door  in  the  low  white-washed  wall  of  the  saint's  house,  sur- 
mounted by  its  white  flag.  In  my  dazed  condition,  I  was  some- 
times in  danger  of  stumbling  into  such  places  unawares.  At  the 
instant  of  recovered  consciousness  I  always  remembered  the  warn- 
ings of  my  guide  as  I  stood  by  the  house  of  Sidi  Gali  at  Tangier: 
"Sacred  place?  Yes,  sacred.  No  Nazarene  may  enter  it.  But 
Moslems,  yes,  Moslems  may  fly  here  for  sanctuary.  Life  to  the 
Moslem,  death  to  the  Nazarene.  So  it  is." 

Oh,  it  is  an  awful  thing  to  feel  that  death  is  waiting  for  you 
constantly,  that  at  any  moment,  at  any  turn,  at  any  corner  it  may 
be  upon  you!  Such  was  my  state  as  I  walked  on  that  evening, 
waiting  for  the  sunset,  through  the  streets  of  Wazzan.  At  one 
moment  I  was  conscious  of  a  sound  in  my  ears  above  the  din  of 
traffic — the  Arrah  of  the  ass-drivers,  the  Bdlak  of  the  men  riding 
mules,  and  the  general  clamor  of  tongues.  It  was  the  steady  beat 
of  a  footstep  close  behind  me.  I  knew  whose  footstep  it  was.  I 
turned  about  quickly,  and  Larby  was  again  face  to  face  with 
me.  He  met  my  gaze  with  the  same  cold,  glittering  look.  My 
impulse  was  to  fly  at  his  throat,  but  that  I  dare  not  do.  I 
knew  myself  to  be  a  coward,  and  I  remembered  the  Moorish 
prison". 

"Larby,"  I  said,  "what  do  you  want?" 

"Nothing,  Sidi,  nothing,"  he  answered. 

"Then  why  are  you  following  me  like  this  ?" 

"Following  you,  Sidi?"  The  fellow  raised  his  eyebrows  and 
lifted  both  hands  in  astonishment. 

"Yes,  following  me,  dogging  me,  watching  me,  tracking  me 
down.  What  does  it  mean?  Speak  out  plainly." 

"Sidi  is  jesting,"  he  said,  with  a  mischievous  smile.  "Is  not 
this  Wazzan— the  holy  city  of  Wazzan?  Sidi  is  looking  at  the 
streets,  at  the  mosques,  at  the  saints'  houses.  So  is  Larby.  That 
is  all." 

One  glance  at  the  man's  evil  eyes  would  have  told  you  that  he 
lied. 

"Which  way  are  you  going?"  I  asked. 

"This  way."  With  a  motion  of  the  head  he  indicated  the 
street  before  him. 

"Then  I  am  going  to  this,"  I  said,  and  I  walked  away  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

I  resolved  to  return  to  the  English  Consul,  to  tell  him  every- 


'392  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

thing,  and  claim  his  protection.  Though  all  the  Moorish  author- 
ities in  Morocco  were  in  league  with  this  religious  monomaniac, 
yet  surely  there  was  life  and  safety  under  English  power  for  one 
whose  only  offense  was  that  of  being  witness  to  a  crime  which 
might  lead  to  a  claim  for  indemnity. 

That  it  should  come  to  this,  and  I  of  all  men  should  hear  it! 
God  help  me!  God  lead  me!  God  give  me  light!  Light,  light, 
O  God;  give  me  light! 


THE  LAST   CONFESSION  393 


IV 

FULL  of  this  new  purpose  and  of  the  vague  hope  inspired  by  it, 
I  was  making  my  way  back  to  the  house  of  the  Consul,  when  I  came 
upon  two  postal  couriers  newly  arrived  from  Tangier  on  their  way 
to  Fez.  They  were  drawn  up,  amid  a  throng  of  the  townspeople, 
before  the  palace  of  the  Grand  Shereef,  and  with  the  Moorish  pas- 
sion for  "powder-play"  they  were  firing  their  matchlocks  into  the 
air  as  salute  and  signal.  Sight  of  the  mail-bags  slung  at  their  sides, 
and  of  the  Shereef's  satchel,  which  they  had  come  some  miles  out 
of  their  course  to  deliver,  suggested  the  thought  that  they  might 
be  carrying  letters  for  me,  which  could  never  come  to  my  hands 
unless  they  were  given  to  me  now.  The  couriers  spoke  some  little 
English.  I  explained  my  case  to  them,  and  begged  them  to  open 
their  bags  and  see  if  anything  had  been  sent  forward  in  my  name 
from  Tangier  to  Fez.  True  to  the  phlegmatic  character  of  the 
Moor  in  all  affairs  of  common  life,  they  protested  that  they  dare 
not  do  so;  the  bags  were  tied  and  sealed,  and  none  dare  open  them. 
If  there  were  letters  of  mine  inside  they  must  go  on  to  Fez,  and  then 
return  to  Tangier.  But  with  the  usual  results  I  had  recourse  to 
my  old  expedient;  a  bribe  broke  the  seals,  the  bags  were  searched 
and  two  letters  were  found  for  me. 

The  letters,  like  those  that  came  to  Fez,  were  one  from  my 
wife  and  one  from  Wenman.  I  could  not  wait  till  I  was  alone, 
but  broke  open  the  envelopes  and  read  my  letters  where  I  stood. 
A  little  crowd  of  Moors  had  gathered  about  me — men,  youths,  boys, 
and  children — the  ragged  inhabitants  of  the  streets  of  the  holy 
city.  They  seemed  to  be  chaffing  and  laughing  at  my  expense, 
but  I  paid  no  heed  to  them. 

Just  as  before,  so  now,  and  for  the  same  reason  I  read  Wen- 
man's  letter  first.  I  remember  every  word  of  it,  for  every  word 
seemed  to  burn  into  my  brain  like  flame. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  wrote  Wenman,  "I  think  it  my  duty  to  tell 
you  that  your  little  son  is  seriously  ill." 

I  knew  it— I  knew  it ;  who  knew  it  so  well  as  I,  though  I  was 
more  than  a  thousand  miles  away? 

"It  is  a  strange  fact  that  he  is  down  with  the  very  disease  of  the 
throat  which  you  have  for  so  long  a  time  made  your  especial 


394  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

study.  Such,  at  least,  is  our  diagnosis,  assisted  by  your  own  dis- 
coveries. The  case  has  now  reached  that  stage  where  we  must 
contemplate  the  possibility  of  the  operation  which  you  have  per- 
formed with  such  amazing  results.  Our  only  uneasiness  arises 
from  the  circumstance  that  this  operation  has  hitherto  been  done 
by  no  one  except  yourself.  We  have,  however,  your  explanations 
and  your  diagrams,  and  on  these  we  must  rely.  And,  even  if  you 
were  here,  his  is  not  a  case  in  which  your  own  hand  should  be  en- 
gaged. Therefore,  rest  assured,  my  dear  fellow,"  etc.,  etc. 

Blockheads !  If  they  had  not  done  it  already  they  must  not  do 
it  at  all.  I  would  telegraph  from  Tangier  that  I  was  coming. 
Not  a  case  for  my  hand !  Fools,  fools !  It  was  a  case  for  my 
hand  only. 

I  did  not  stop  to  read  the  friendly  part  of  Wenman's  letter, 
the  good  soul's  expression  of  sympathy  and  solicitude,  but  in  the 
fever  of  my  impatience,  sweating  at  every  pore  and  breaking  into 
loud  exclamations,  I  tore  open  the  letter  from  my  wife.  My 
eyes  swam  over  the  sheet,  and  I  missed  much  at  that  first  reading, 
but  the  essential  part  of  the  message  stood  out  before  me  as  if 
written  in  red: 

"We  ...  so  delighted  .  .  .  your  letters  .  .  .  Glad  you 
are  having  warm,  beautiful  weather  .  .  .  Trust  .  .  .  make  you 
strong  and  well  .  .  .  We  are  having  blizzards  here  .  .  .  snow- 
ing to-day  ...  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,  dearest,  that  our  darling 
is  very  ill.  It  is  his  throat  again.  This  is  Friday,  and  he  has 
grown  worse  every  day  since  I  wrote  on  Monday.  When  he  can 
speak  he  is  always  calling  for  you.  He  thinks  if  you  were  here 
he  would  soon  be  well.  He  is  very  weak,  for  he  can  take  no  nour- 
ishment, and  he  has  grown  so  thin,  poor  little  fellow.  But  he  looks 
very  lovely,  and  every  night  he  says  in  his  prayers,  'God  bless 
papa,  and  bring  him  safely  home.'  ..." 

I  could  bear  no  more,  the  page  in  my  hands  was  blotted  out, 
and  for  the  first  time  since  I  became  a  man  I  broke  into  a  flood  of 
tears. 

O  Omnipotent  Lord  of  Heaven  and  earth,  to  think  that  this 
child  is  as  life  of  my  life  and  soul  of  my  soul,  that  he  is  dying,  that 
I  alone  of  all  men  living  can  save  him,  and  that  we  are  twelve  hun- 
dred miles  apart !  Wipe  them  out,  O  Lord — wipe  out  this  accursed 
space  dividing  us;  annihilate  it.  Thou  canst  do  all,  thou  canst 
remove  mountains,  and  this  is  but  a  little  thing  to  Thee.  Give  me 
my  darling  under  my  hands,  and  I  will  snatch  him  out  of  the  arms 
of  death  itself. 

Did  I  utter  such  words  aloud  out  of  the  great  tempest  of  my 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  395 

trouble?  I  can  not  say;  I  do  not  know.  Only  when  I  had  lifted 
my  eyes  from  my  wife's  letter  did  I  become  conscious  of  where 
I  was  and  what  was  going  on  around  me.  I  was  still  in  the  midst 
of  the  crowd  of  idlers,  and  they  were  grinning,  and  laughing,  and 
jeering,  and  mocking  at  the  sight  of  tears — weak,  womanish,  stupid 
tears — on  the  face  of  a  strong  man. 

I  was  ashamed,  but  I  was  yet  more  angry,  and  to  escape  from 
the  danger  of  an  outbreak  of  my  wrath  I  turned  quickly  aside,  and 
walked  rapidly  down  a  narrow  alley. 

As  I  did  so  a  second  paper  dropped  to  the  ground  from  the 
sheet  of  my  wife's  letter.  Before  I  had  picked  it  up  I  saw 
what  it  was.  It  was  a  message  from  my  boy  himself,  in  the  hand- 
writing of  his  nurse. 

"He  is  brighter  to-night,"  the  good  creature  herself  wrote  at 
the  top  of  the  page,  "and  he  would  insist  on  dictating  this  letter." 

"My  dear,  dear  papa — " 

When  I  had  read  thus  far  I  was  conscious  again  that  the  yell- 
ing, barking,  bleating  mob  behind  were  looking  after  me.  To 
avoid  the  torment  of  their  gaze  I  hurried  on,  passed  down  a  second 
alley,  and  then  turned  into  a  narrow  opening  which  seemed  to 
be  the  mouth  of  a  third.  But  I  paid  small  heed  to  my  footsteps, 
for  all  my  mind  was  with  the  paper  which  I  wished  to  read. 

Finding  myself  in  a  quiet  place  at  length,  I  read  it.  The 
words  were  my  little  darling's  own,  and  I  could  hear  his  voice  as 
if  he  were  speaking  them: 

"My  dear,  dear  papa,  I  am  ill  with  my  throat,  and  sometimes 
I  can't  speak.  Last  night  the  ceiling  was  falling  down  on  me,  and 
the  fire  was  coming  up  to  the  bed.  But  I'm  werry  nearly  all 
right  now.  We  are  going  to  have  a  Thanksgiving  party  soon — me, 
and  Jumbo,  and  Scotty,  the  puppy.  When  are  you  coming  home? 
Do  you  live  in  a  tent  in  Morocco?  I  have  a  fire  in  my  bedroom: 
do  you?  Write  and  send  me  some  foreign  stamps  from  Tangier. 
Are  the  little  boys  black  in  Morocco  ?  Nurse  showed  me  a  picture 
of  a  lady  who  lives  there,  and  she's  all  black  except  her  lips,  and 
her  mouth  stands  out.  Have  you  got  a  black  servant?  Have  you 
got  a  horse  to  ride  on?  Is  he  black?  I  am  tired  now.  Good- 
night. Mama  says  I  must  not  tell  you  to  come  home  quick. 
Jumbo's  all  right.  He  grunts  when  you  shove  him  along.  So 
good-night,  papa,  x  x  x  x.  These  kisses  are  all  for  you.  I  am  so 
thin. 

"From  your  little  boy, 

"NOEL." 


396  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

Come  home!  Yes,  my  darling,  I  will  come  home.  Nothing 
shall  stop  me  now — nothing,  nothing!  The  sun  is  almost  set. 
Everything  is  ready.  The  men  must  be  saddling  the  horses  again. 
In  less  than  half  an  hour  I  shall  have  started  afresh.  I  will  ride 
all  night  to-night  and  all  day  to-morrow,  and  in  a  week  I  shall  be 
standing  by  your  side.  A  week !  How  long !  how  long !  Lord  of 
life  and  death,  keep  my  boy  alive  until  then ! 

I  became  conscious  that  I  was  speaking  hot  words  such  as  these 
aloud.  Even  agony  like  mine  has  its  lucidities  of  that  kind.  At 
the  same  moment  I  heard  footsteps  somewhere  behind  me.  They 
were  slow  and  steady  footsteps,  but  I  knew  them  too  well.  The 
blood  rushed  to  my  head  and  back  to  my  heart.  I  looked  up  and 
aroftnd.  Where  was  I?  Where?  Where? 

I  was  in  a  little  court,  surrounded  by  low,  white-washed  walls. 
Before  me  there  was  an  inner  compartment  roofed  by  a  rude  dome. 
From  the  apex  of  this  dome  there  floated  a  tiny  white  flag.  I 
was  in  a  saint's  house.  In  the  confusion  of  my  mind,  and  the 
agonizing  disarray  of  all  my  senses,  I  had  stumbled  into  the  sacred 
place  unawares. 

The  footsteps  came  nearer.  They  seemed  to  be  sounding  on  the 
back  of  my  neck.  I  struggled  forward  a  few  paces.  By  a  last 
mechanical  resource  of  despair  I  tried  to  conceal  myself  in  die 
inner  chamber.  I  was  too  late.  A  face  appeared  in  the  opening 
at  which  I  had  entered.  It  was  Larby's  face,  contracted  into  a 
grimacing  expression. 

I  read  the  thought  of  the  man's  face  as  by  a  flash  of  light. 
"Good,  Sidi,  good !  You  have  done  my  work  as  well  as  my  mas- 
ter's. You  are  a  dead  man ;  no  one  will  know,  and  I  need  never  to 
lift  my  hand  to  you." 

At  the  next  instant  the  face  was  gone.  In  the  moment  follow- 
ing I  lived  a  lifetime.  My  brain  did  not  think;  it  lightened.  I 
remembered  the  death  of  the  American  in  the  streets  of  Fez. 
I  recalled  the  jeering  crowd  at  the  top  of  the  alley.  I  reflected 
that  Larby  was  gone  to  tell  the  mob  that  I  had  dishonored  one 
of  their  sanctuaries.  I  saw  myself  dragged  out,  trampled  under 
foot,  torn  to  pieces,  and  then  smuggled  away  in  the  dusk  on  a 
donkey's  back  under  panniers  of  filth.  My  horses  ready,  my  men 
waiting,  my  boy  dying  for  want  of  me,  and  myself  dead  in  a 
dunghill. 

"Great  Jehovah,  lend  me  Thy  strength!"  I  cried,  as  I  rushed 
out  into  the  alley.  Larby  was  stealing  away  with  rapid  steps. 
I  overtook  him;  I  laid  hold  of  him  by  the  hood  of  his  jellab.  He 
turned  upon  me.  All  my  soul  was  roused  to  uncontrollable  fury. 


THE  LAST  CONFESSION  397 

I  took  the  man  in  both  my  arms,  I  threw  him  off  his  xeet,  I  lifted 
him  by  one  mighty  effort  high  above  my  shoulders  and  flung  him 
to  the  ground. 

He  began  to  cry  out,  and  I  sprang  upon  him  again  and  laid  hold 
of  his  throat.  I  knew  where  to  grip,  and  not  a  sound  could  he 
utter.  We  were  still  in  the  alley,  and  I  put  my  left  hand  into  the 
neck  of  his  kaftan  and  dragged  him  back  into  the  saint's  house. 
He  drew  his  dagger  and  lunged  at  me.  I  parried  the  thrust  with 
my  foot  and  broke  his  arm  with  my  heel.  Then  there  was  a 
moment  of  horrible  bedazzlement.  Red  flames  flashed  before  me. 
My  head  grew  dizzy.  The  whole  universe  seemed  to  reel  beneath 
my  feet.  The  man  was  doubled  backward  across  my  knee.  I 
had  drawn  my  knife — I  knew  where  to  strike — and  "For  my  boy, 
my  boy !"  I  cried  in  my  heart. 

It  was  done.  The  man  died  without  a  groan.  His  body  col- 
lapsed in  my  hands,  rolled  from  my  knee,  and  fell  at  my  feet — 
doubled  up,  the  head  under  the  neck,  the  broken  arm  under  the 
trunk  in  a  heap,  a  heap. 

Oh!  oh!  Ldrby!  Larby! 

Then  came  an  awful  revulsion  of  feeling.  For  a  moment  I 
stood  looking  down,  overwhelmed  with  the  horror  of  my  act  In 
a  sort  of  drunken  stupor  I  gazed  at  the  wide-open  eyes,  and  the 
grimacing  face  fixed  in  its  hideousness  by  the  convulsion  of  death. 

0  God !  O  God !  what  had  I  done !  what  had  I  done ! 

But  I  did  not  cry  out  In  that  awful  moment  an  instinct  of 
self-preservation  saved  me.  The  fatal  weapon  dropped  from  my 
hand,  and  I  crept  out  of  the  place.  My  great  strength  was  all 
gone  now.  I  staggered  along,  and  at  every  step  my  limbs  grew 
more  numb  and  stiff. 

But  in  the  alley  I  looked  around.  I  knew  no  way  back  to  my 
people  except  that  way  by  which  I  came.  Down  the  other  alley 
and  through  the  crowd  of  idlers  I  must  go.  Would  they  be  there 
still?  If  so,  would  they  see  in  my  face  what  I  had  done? 

I  was  no  criminal  to  mask  my  crime.  In  a  dull,  stupid,  drowsy, 
comatose  state  I  tottered  down  the  alley  and  through  the  crowd. 
They  saw  me;  they  recognized  me;  I  knew  that  they  were  jeering 
at  me,  but  I  knew  no  more. 

"SkaTri!"  shouted  one,  and  Sham!"  shouted  another,  and  as 

1  staggered  away  they  all  shouted  "Skairi !"  together. 

Father,  they  called  me  a  drunkard.  I  was  a  drunkard  indeed, 
but  I  was  drunk  with  blood. 

The  sun  had  set  by  this  time.  Its  last  rays  were  rising  off  the 
gilded  top  of  the  highest  minaret  in  a  golden  mist  that  looked  like 


398  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

flame  leaping  out  of  a  kiln.  I  saw  that,  as  I  saw  everything, 
through  a  palpitating  haze. 

When  at  length  I  reached  the  place  where  I  had  left  my  peo- 
ple I  found  the  horses  saddled,  the  mules  with  their  burdens  packed 
on  their  panniers,  the  men  waiting,  and  everything  ready.  Full 
well  I  knew  that  I  ought  to  leap  to  my  seat  instantly  and  be  gone 
without  delay;  but  I  seemed  to  have  lost  all  power  of  prompt 
action.  I  was  thinking  of  what  I  wanted  to  do,  but  I  could  not 
do  it.  The  men  spoke  to  me,  and  I  know  that  I  looked  vacantly 
into  their  faces  and  did  not  answer.  One  said  to  another,  "Sidi  is 
growing  deaf." 

The  other  touched  his  forehead  and  grinned. 

I  was  fumbling  with  the  stirrup  of  my  saddle  when  the  English 
Consul  came  up  and  hailed  me  with  cheerful  spirits.  By  an  effort 
that  was  like  a  spasm  I  replied. 

"Allow  me,  doctor,"  he  said,  and  he  offered  his  knee  that  I 
might  mount. 

"Ah,  no,  no,"  I  stammered,  and  I  scrambled  to  my  seat. 

While  I  was  fumbling  with  my  double  rein  I  saw  that  he  was 
looking  at  my  hand. 

"You've  cut  your  fingers,  doctor,"  he  said. 

There  was  blood  on  them.  The  blood  was  not  mine,  but  a 
sort  of  mechanical  cunning  came  to  my  relief.  I  took  out  my 
handkerchief  and  made  a  pretense  to  bind  it  about  my  hand. 

Alee,  the  guide,  was  at  my  right  side  settling  my  lumbering 
foot  in  my  stirrup.  I  felt  him  touch  the  sheath  of  my  knife,  and 
then  I  remembered  that  it  must  be  empty. 

"Sidi  has  lost  his  dagger,"  he  said.     "Look!" 

The  Consul,  who  had  been  on  my  left,  wheeled  round  by  the 
horse's  head,  glanced  at  the  useless  sheath  that  was  stuck  in  the 
belt  of  my  jacket,  and  then  looked  back  into  my  stupid  face. 

"Sidi  is  ill,"  he  said  quietly;  "ride  quickly,  my  men,  lose  no 
time,  get  him  out  of  the  country  without  delay !" 

I   heard  Alee   answer,    "Right — all   right!" 

Then  the  Consul's  servant  rode  up — he  was  a  Berber — and 
took  his  place  at  the  head  of  our  caravan. 

"All  ready?"  asked  the  Consul,  in  Arabic. 

"Ready,"  the  men  answered. 

"Then  away,  as  if  you  were  flying  for  your  lives !" 

The  men  put  spurs  to  their  mules,  Alee  gave  the  lash  to  my 
horse,  and  we  started. 

"Good-by,  doctor,"  cried  the  Consul;  "may  you  find  your  little 
son  better  when  you  reach  home !" 


THE  LAST   CONFESSION  399 

I  shouted  some  incoherent  answers  in  a  thick,  loud  voice,  and 
fn  a  few  minutes  more  we  were  galloping  across  the  plain  outside 
the  town. 

The  next  two  hours  are  a  blank  in  my  memory.  In  a  kind  of 
drunken  stupor  I  rode  on  and  on.  The  gray  light  deepened  into 
the  darkness  of  night,  and  the  stars  came  out.  Still  we  rode  and 
rode.  The  moon  appeared  in  the  southern  sky  and  rose  into  the 
broad  whiteness  of  the  stars  overhead.  Then  consciousness  came 
back  to  me,  and  with  it  came  the  first  pangs  of  remorse.  Through 
the  long  hours  of  that  night  ride  one  awful  sight  stood  up  con- 
stantly before  my  eyes.  It  was  the  sight  of  that  dead  body,  stark 
and  cold,  lying  within  that  little  sanctuary  behind  me,  white  now 
with  the  moonlight,  and  silent  with  the  night. 

0  Larby,  Larby!     You  shamed  me.    You  drove  me  from  the 
world.     You  brought  down  your  mother  to  the  grave.    And  yet, 
and  yet — must  I  absolve  your  murder  erf 

Father,  I  reached  my  home  at  last.  At  Gibraltar  I  telegraphed 
that  I  was  coming,  and  at  Dover  I  received  a  telegram  in  reply. 
Four  days  had  intervened  between  the  despatch  of  my  message  and 
the  receipt  of  my  wife's.  Anything  might  have  happened  in  that 
time,  and  my  anxiety  was  feverish.  Stepping  on  to  the  Admiralty 
Pier,  I  saw  a  telegraph  boy  bustling  about  among  the  passengers 
from  the  packet  with  a  telegram  in  his  hand. 

"What  name?"  I  asked. 

He  gave  one  that  was  not  my  own  and  yet  sounded  like  it. 

1  looked  at  the  envelope.     Clearly  the  name  was  intended  for 
mine.     I  snatched  the  telegram  out  of  the  boy's  hand.    It  ran: 
"Welcome  home;  boy  very  weak,  but  not  beyond  hope." 

I  think  I  read  the  words  aloud,  amid  all  the  people,  so 
tremendous  was  my  relief,  and  so  overwhelming  my  joy.  The 
messenger  got  a  gold  coin  for  himself  and  I  leaped  into  the 
train. 

At  Charing  Cross  I  did  not  wait  for  my  luggage,  but  gave  a 
foolish  tip  to  a  porter  and  told  him  to  send  my  things  after  me. 
Within  half  a  minute  of  my  arrival  I  was  driving  out  of  the 
station. 

What  I  suffered  during  those  last  moments  of  waiting  before  I 
reached  my  house  no  tongue  of  man  could  tell.  I  read  my  wife's 
telegram  again,  and  observed  for  the  first  time  that  it  was  now  six 
hours  old.  Six  hours !  They  were  like  six  days  to  my  tortured 
mind. 

From  the  moment  when  we  turned  out  of  Oxford  Street  until 
we  drew  up  at  my  own  door  in  Wimpole  Street  I  did  not  once  draw 


400  THE   LAST    CONFESSION 

breath.  And  being  here  I  dared  hardly  lift  my  eyes  to  the  window 
lest  the  blinds  should  be  down. 

I  had  my  latch-key  with  me,  and  I  let  myself  in  without  ring- 
ing. A  moment  afterward  I  was  in  my  darling's  room.  My  be- 
loved wife  was  with  our  boy,  and  he  was  unconscious.  That  did 
not  trouble  me  at  all,  for  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  I  was  not  too  late. 

Throwing  off  my  coat,  I  sent  to  the  surgery  for  my  case,  dis- 
missed my  dear  girl  with  scant  embraces,  drew  my  darling's  cot 
up  to  the  window,  and  tore  down  the  curtains  that  kept  out  the 
light,  for  the  spring  day  was  far  spent. 

Then,  being  alone  with  my  darling,  I  did  my  work.  I  had 
trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf  until  I  entered  his  room,  but  when 
the  time  came  my  hand  was  as  firm  as  a  rock  and  my  pulse  beat 
like  a  child's. 

I  knew  I  could  do  it,  and  I  did  it.  God  had  spared  me  to  come 
home,  and  I  had  kept  my  vow.  I  had  traveled  ten  days  and  nights 
to  tackle  the  work,  but  it  was  a  short  task  when  once  begun. 

After  I  had  finished  I  opened  the  door  to  call  my  wife  back  to 
the  room.  The  poor  soul  was  crouching  with  the  boy's  nurse  on 
the  threshold,  and  they  were  doing  their  utmost  to  choke  their  sobs. 

"There !"  I  cried,  "there's  your  boy !    He'll  be  all  right  now." 

The  mischief  was  removed,  and  I  had  never  a  doubt  of  the 
child's  recovery. 

My  wife  flung  herself  on  my  breast,  and  then  I  realized  the 
price  I  had  paid  for  so  much  nervous  tension.  All  the  nerves  of 
organic  life  seemed  to  collapse  in  an  instant. 

"I'm  dizzy;  lead  me  to  my  room,"  I  said. 

My  wife  brought  me  brandy,  but  my  hand  could  not  lift  the 
tumbler  to  my  mouth,  and  when  my  dear  girl's  arms  had  raised 
my  own,  the  glass  rattled  against  my  teeth.  They  put  me  to  bed; 
I  was  done — done. 

God  will  forgive  him.    Why  should  not  If 

Father,  that  was  a  month  ago,  and  I  am  lying  here  still.  It  is 
not  neurasthenia  of  the  body  that  is  killing  me,  but  neurasthenia  of 
the  soul.  No  doctor's  drug  will  ever  purge  me  of  that.  It  is  here 
like  fire  in  my  brain,  and  here  like  ice  in  my  heart.  Was  my 
awful  act  justifiable  before  God?  Was  it  right  in  the  eyes  of 
Him  who  has  written  in  the  tables  of  His  law,  Thou  shalt  do  no 
murder?  Was  it  murder?  Was  it  crime?  If  I  outraged  the  let- 
ter of  the  holy  edict,  did  I  also  wrong  its  spirit? 

Speak,  speak,  for  pity's  sake,  speak.  Have  mercy  upon  me, 
as  you  hope  for  mercy.  Think  where  I  was  and  what  fate  was 
before  me.  Would  I  do  it  again  in  spite  of  all?  Yes,  yes,  a  thou- 


THE   LAST   CONFESSION  401 

sand,  thousand  times,  yes.  I  will  go  to  God  with  that  word  on 
my  lips,  and  He  shall  judge  me. 

And  yet  I  suffer  these  agonies  of  doubt.  Life  was  always  a 
sacred  thing  to  me.  God  gave  it,  and  only  God  should  take  it 
away.  He  who  spilt  the  blood  of  his  fellow-man  took  the  govern- 
ment of  the  world  out  of  God's  hands.  And  then— and  then- 
father,  have  I  not  told  you  all  ? 

Yes,  yes,  the  Father  of  all  fathers  will  pardon  him. 

On  the  day  when  I  arrived  at  Tangier  from  Fez  I  had  some 
two  hours  to  wait  for  the  French  steamer  from  Malaga  that  was  to 
take  me  to  Cadiz.  In  order  to  beguile  my  mind  of  its  impatience, 
I  walked  through  the  town  as  far  as  the  outer  Sok — the  Sok  de 
Barra. 

It  was  market  day,  Thursday,  and  the  place  was  the  same  ani- 
mated and  varied  scene  as  I  had  looked  upon  before.  Crushing  my 
way  through  the  throng,  I  came  upon  the  saint's  house  near  the 
middle  of  the  market.  The  sight  of  the  little  white  structure  with 
its  white  flag  brought  back  the  tragedy  I  saw  enacted  there,  and 
the  thought  of  that  horror  was  now  made  hellish  to  my  conscience 
by  the  memory  of  another  tragedy  at  another  saint's  house. 

I  turned  quickly  aside,  and  stepping  up  to  the  elevated  cause- 
way that  runs  in  front  of  the  tents  of  the  brassworkers,  I  stood 
awhile  and  watched  the  Jewish  workmen  hammering  the  designs 
on  their  trays. 

Presently  I  became  aware  of  a  little  girl  who  was  sitting  on  a 
bundle  of  rushes  and  plaiting  them  into  a  chain.  She  was  a  tiny 
thing,  six  years  of  age  at  the  utmost,  but  with  the  sober  look 
of  a  matron.  Her  sweet  face  was  the  color  of  copper,  and  her 
quiet  eyes  were  deep  blue.  A  yellow  gown  of  some  light  fabric 
covered  her  body,  but  her  feet  were  bare.  She  worked  at  her 
plaiting  with  steady  industry,  and  as  often  as  she  stopped  to  draw 
a  rush  from  the  bundle  beneath  her  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked 
with  a  wistful  gaze  over  the  feeding-ground  of  the  camels,  and 
down  the  lane  to  the  bridge,  and  up  by  the  big  house  on  the  hill- 
side to  where  the  sandy  road  goes  off  to  Fez. 

The  little  demure  figure,  amid  so  many  romping  children,  in- 
terested and  touched  me.  This  was  noticed  by  a  Jewish  brass- 
worker  before  whose  open  booth  I  stood  and  he  smiled  and  nodded 
his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  little  woman. 

"Dear  little  Sobersides,"  I  said ;  "does  she  never  play  with  other 
children  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  Jew,  "she  sits  here  every  day,  and  all  day  long- 
that  is,  when  her  father  is  away." 


402  THE   LAST   CONFESSION 

"Whose  child  is  she?"  I  asked.  An  awful  thought  had  struck 
me. 

"A  great  rascal's"  the  Jew  answered,  "though  the  little  one  is 
such  an  angel.  He  keeps  a  spice  shop  over  yonder,  but  he  is  a 
guide  as  well  as  a  merchant,  and  when  he  is  out  on  a  journey  the 
child  sits  here  and  waits  and  watches  for  his  coming  home  again. 
She  can  catch  the  first  sight  of  travelers  from  this  place  and  she 
knows  her  father  at  any  distance.  See !— do  you  know  where  she's 
looking  now  ?  Over  the  road  by  El  Minzah — that's  the  way  from 
Fez.  Her  father  has  gone  there  with  a  Christian." 

The  sweat  was  bursting  from  my  forehead. 

"What's  his  name?"  I  asked. 

"The  Moors  call  him  Larby,"  said  the  Jew,  "and  the  Christians 
nickname  him  Ananias.  They  say  he  is  a  Spanish  renegade,  es- 
caped from  Ceuta,  who  witnessed  to  the  Prophet  and  married  a 
Moorish  wife.  But  he's  everything  to  the  little  one — bless  her 
innocent  face !  Look  !  do  you  see  the  tiny  brown  dish  at  her  side  ? 
That's  for  her  drinking  water.  She  bringes  it  full  every  day,  and 
also  a  little  cake  of  bread  for  her  dinner. 

"She's  never  tired  of  waiting,  and  if  Larby  does  not  come  home 
to-night  she'll  be  here  in  the  morning.  I  do  believe  that  if  any- 
thing happened  to  Larby  she  would  wait  until  doomsday." 

My  throat  was  choking  me,  and  I  could  not  speak.  The  Jew 
saw  my  emotion,  but  he  showed  no  surprise.  I  stepped  up  to  the 
little  one  and  stroked  her  glossy  black  hair. 

"Hoolia?"    I    said. 

She  smiled  back  into  my  face  and  answered,  "lyyeh" — yes. 

"I  could  say  no  more;  I  dare  not  look  into  her  trustful  eyes 
and  think  that  he  whom  she  waited  for  would  never  come  again. 
I  stooped  and  kissed  the  child,  and  then  fled  away. 

God  show  me  my  duty.    The  Priest  or  the  Man — which? 

"Listen  !  do  you  hear  him  ?  That's  the  footstep  of  my  boy  over- 
head. My  darling !  He  is  well  again  now.  My  little  sunny  laddie  ! 
He  came  into  my  bedroom  this  morning  with  a  hop,  skip,  and  a 
jump — a  gleam  of  sunshine.  Poor  innocent,  thoughtless  boy. 
They  will  take  him  into  the  country  soon,  and  he  will  romp  in 
the  lanes  and  tear  up  the  flowers  in  the  garden. 

My  son,  my  son !  He  has  drained  my  life  away ;  he  has  taken 
all  my  strength.  Do  I  wish  that  I  had  it  back?  Yes,  but  only 
—yes,  only  that  I  might  give  it  him  again.  Hark !  That's  his  voice, 
that's  his  laughter.  How  happy  he  is !  When  I  think  how  soon — 
how  very  soon — when  I  think  that  I — 

God  sees  all.     He  is  looking  down  on  little  Hoolia  waiting, 


THE  LAST   CONFESSION  403 

waiting,  waiting  where  the  camels  come  over  the  hills,  and  on  my 
little  Noel  laughing  and  prancing  in  the  room  above  us. 

Father,  I  have  told  you  all  at  last.  There  are  tears  in  your 
eyes,  father.  You  are  crying.  Tell  me,  then,  what  hope  is  left? 
You  know  my  sin,  and  you  know  my  suffering.  Did  I  do  wrong? 
Did  I  do  right? 

My  son,  God's  law  ^vas  made  for  man,  not  man  for  His  law. 
If  the  spirit  has  been  broken  where  the  letter  has  been  kept,  the 
spirit  may  be  kept  where  the  letter  has  been  broken.  Your  earthly 
father  dare  not  judge  you.  To  your  Heavenly  Father  he  must  leave 
both  the  deed  and  the  circumstance.  It  is  for  Him  to  justify  or 
forgive.  If  you  are  innocent,  He  will  place  your  hand  in  the  hand 
of  him  who  slew  the  Egyptian  and  yet  looked  on  the  burning  bush. 
'And  if  you  are  guilty,  He  will  not  shut  His  ears  to  the  cry  of  your 
'despair. 

He  has  gone.  I  could  not  tell  him.  It  would  have  embittered 
his  parting  hour;  it  would  have  poisoned  the  wine  of  the  sacrament- 
O,  Larby!  Larby!  flesh  of  my  flesh,  my  sorrow,  my  shame,  my 
'prodigal— my  son. 


END  OF  "THE  LAST  CONFESSION' 


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